


'Cause I wanna keep you any way I can

by sadieb798



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (if you squint), Age Regression/De-Aging, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Wanda Maximoff, Awkward Flirting, Bucky Barnes Feels, Comic Book Science, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, Friday and Bucky are bros, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I SWEAR GOOD THINGS COME OUT OF THIS, Iron Husbands, Just pretend they all got their shit together and they're all okay, M/M, Magic, Marriage Proposal, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Neurology & Neuroscience, Original Character(s), Pining, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Psychology, Romance, Sam Wilson Feels, Sam Wilson Needs a Hug, Sam Wilson-centric, Science Bros, Spells & Enchantments, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Telepathic Wanda Maximoff, Tony Stark Hates Magic, Wanda and Natasha are Bros, World War II, hand wavy science more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-04 03:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12160959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: Sam raises a questioning eyebrow at his team captain. “What do you mean?” he asks.“Well,” Steve starts, looking him dead in the eye. Then with a deep breath, like he’s bracing for a punch, says: “Let’s just say that that’s definitely Bucky Barnes from Brooklyn Heights in there.”Sam stares incomprehensibly at him. “What do you mean?” he asks again, dismay rising in his throat.“According to Captain Rogers,” Helen explains, calmly, her eyes staring intently into his. “Agent Barnes has reverted to Bucky Barnes, age twenty-five.”





	1. A love so deep in the pit of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> So for the purposes of this fic, Bucky goes under a new nickname. Because he’s not Bucky anymore, nor is he James or Jim: he’s Jamie. But he and Sam have their own terms of endearments - he’s Frosty while Sam’s Birdy.
> 
> Because I say so that’s why.
> 
> And before I forget, here, have a [playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/user/sadieb798/playlist/45P1bHo7wNbxwhMsWuM5y8) to better connect to all your angsty emotions while reading this fic.
> 
> You're welcome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait, lemme get this straight,” Sam stops him, holding up a finger, and shakes his head to stop the spinning. “What you’re saying is, my boyfriend - Jamie Barnes, Winter Soldier, an ex-brainwashed assassin for Hydra - is back to being...the _kid_ he was when he left to fight in World War II?”

Sam paces back and forth in the hospital corridor. 

The acidic stench of antiseptic and bleach burns in his nostrils, the linoleum floor squeaks beneath his boots with each step. The opaque state of the windows mutes the sunlight outside the medical floor of Avengers Tower, but Sam can tell that the sun has definitely moved since he, Rhodey and Tony have been out here waiting for Steve to come back with news on how Jamie’s doing.

Unlike the Iron Men who’ve planted themselves on two cushy chairs against the wall, Sam can’t sit down without forcing himself; he’s much too restless and keyed up to even pause his steps. He scratches at his forehead, his other hand scrubbing along the rough texture of his pants to wipe off the sweat that’s gathered on his palms. He probably should’ve had a shower, he thinks absently. He hasn’t even taken off his Falcon uniform, spare the goggles. He removes his hand from his forehead, giving it a cursory glance, before double-taking. There’s blood and streaks of gray ash mixed with the sweat. _Definitely_ should have had a shower.

As much as he’d like to have one though, Sam knows that the need to know how his boyfriend is doing is stronger than basic human necessities. Especially since their run-in with Amora and the rest of the Sisterhood left most of the Upper East Side in pieces, and the Avengers, along with S.H.I.E.L.D., scattered to the winds, either in Medical or off in different search parties to find the Enchantress.

The image of Jamie’s body, crumpled and lax, lying on top of a pile of debris flashes through Sam’s head, making him stutter out a shaky breath. He forces his eyes closed, squeezing them tightly to better banish the image.

Of course, _he’d_ been the one to find Jamie.

After he and Redwing spent the better part of an hour in the skies searching for other downed Avengers, there was only the Winter Soldier unaccounted for. He’d spotted Jamie’s vibranium arm glistening in the sunlight far below him. Sam didn’t even think when he glided downwards, tucked his wings in and touched down on the shaky, uneven rock at the edge of the city. In the time he spent making his way over to Jamie, he didn’t once tear his eyes away from the too-still body of his boyfriend to watch where he was stepping. As a result, his legs shook and his steps faltered on sliding rocks as he rushed towards him, but he could hardly make himself care. He just repeatedly pleaded, _please be alive_ _please be alive_ _please be alive_ , even when he got close enough to slide to his knees and curl himself over Jamie, he continued the chant in his head.

What the fuck was Jamie _thinking?_ Taking on Amora alone, _ignoring_ a direct order from Steve not to go after her, and going ghost on him. Sam can still hear Steve’s voice in his ears, repeating over the party channel: “ _Do_ not _engage, I repeat do_ not _\- ”_ before Jamie went silent over the comms.

But Sam can’t let himself think about that now.

“Okay,” he says, blowing out a frustrated breath, and turning to look at his friends. “Is anyone else here getting tired of Asgardian bullshit?”

“You’re not an Avenger until you’ve experienced Asgardian bullshit,” Tony says, dressed casually in one of his customary Armani suit, sans jacket as he stares down at the holoscreen projected from the face of his Starkwatch. Sam frowns at the thought. Tony lifts his brown eyes long enough to make contact with Sam’s and give him an easy smirk, before going back to work. Sam doesn’t respond as he purses his lips together.

He adjusts his gloves for the umpteenth time that hour; his impatience to know how Jamie is doing aggravating him. It’s like he’s itching to claw his way out of his own skin. It’s a strange feeling, he’s usually a _lot_ calmer in these situations. _Then again,_ he thinks, _it’s usually_ Jamie _pacing outside my hospital room like a caged lion while_ I’m _the one laid up in bed. But now…_

“Guess congrats are in order, Wilson,” Rhodey teases, cutting off Sam’s thought for him. Sam looks over at the Colonel, who is still in his own scrapped-up dark metal War Machine armor and looking ridiculous without a helmet and out of place on a chair made to take the weight of the armor. “You’re _officially_ an Avenger!”

Rhodey gives him a hard slap on the back with one of his repulsors, making Sam flinch slightly from the force of the impact.

“Thanks,” Sam mutters, closing his eyes and praying for patience.

“Relax, Sam,” continues Rhodey, sensing Sam’s anxiety. “We won’t know for sure if there’s anything to worry about with Jamie until after Helen and Steve are done talking to him.”

“If only _one_ of them would just come out and give me _something_ already,” Sam grumbles. “At least to tell me that Frosty’s okay - ”

Suddenly the door to Jamie’s room swings open, drawing the attention of the three men.

Steve still dressed in his Captain America uniform, sans helmet, blond hair in disarray and all over the place, and Dr. Cho in her customary teal-colored scrubs with her dark hair pulled back into a bun, emerge from the room. They turn, spot Sam, and immediately begin walking towards him. Despite the hospital room not being far from them, the anticipation of getting answers makes the walk feel like the floor is being stretched out in front of Sam.

He crosses his arms reflexively over his chest, his heart hammering against his ribcage. Beside him, Rhodey and Tony jump to their feet, fidgeting and faces scrunched in concern. Sam’s eyes quickly track over Helen’s delicate features, looking for some kind of clue as to what his boyfriend’s condition might be. But like the professional she is, Dr. Cho’s face is a carefully placed mask.

“There was no internal damage done to Agent Barnes during the battle,” Helen says immediately, thankfully getting right down to the point. “He’s asleep right now, but I bet once he’s awake, he’ll be itching to leave.”

Sam takes a grateful breath of air, the good news settling his nerves. “So he’s alright?” he asks, hopeful. “We can go home?”

Steve winces visibly, taking the wind out of Sam’s sails. Beside him, Helen shifts uncomfortably. “Not exactly,” Steve answers for the both of them.

Sam raises a questioning eyebrow at his team captain, beside him the Iron Men share a look. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well,” Steve starts, looking him dead in the eye. Then with a deep breath, like he’s bracing for a punch, says: “Let’s just say that that’s definitely Bucky Barnes from Brooklyn Heights in there.”

Sam stares incomprehensibly at him. “What do you mean?” he asks again, dismay rising in his throat.

“According to Captain Rogers,” Helen explains, calmly, her eyes staring intently into his. “Agent Barnes has reverted to Bucky Barnes, age twenty-five.”

The words don’t make sense to Sam and his head feels like it’s spinning; like how it usually does when he gets caught up in a whirlwind while flying.

“Just before the draft,” Steve chimes in, as if that already confusing statement needed more confusion.

“Wait, lemme get this straight,” Sam stops him, holding up a finger, and shakes his head to stop the spinning. “What you’re saying is,” he starts, once his head is in order, “my boyfriend - Jamie Barnes, Winter Soldier, an ex-brainwashed assassin for Hydra - is back to being...the _kid_ he was when he left to fight in World War II?”

Sam lifts his eyes to Steve’s face. His face is covered in dirt and grit, there are scratches on his face that Sam can see are just starting to heal. He meets Sam’s gaze, blue-eyed stare weary, and his lips downturned into a dejected pinch.

“Yes,” he quietly emphasizes.

Sam shifts his gaze from his captain to the doctor and back again. Then he slowly goes to the plush chair Tony had vacated and sits down heavily.

“What do you mean by ‘reverted’ exactly?” Tony asks her, as Sam stares fixedly down at the pristine checkered linoleum between his boots.

“You’ve seen the Captain America Smithsonian exhibit?” Helen returns, turning to him.

“Sure,” Tony admits, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “I donated most of those pieces.”

“Well, those pictures they have of Agent Barnes when he was younger? That’s what he looks like again.”

“He looks exactly the same,” Steve whispers, eyes wide and his voice tinged with wonder. “His hair’s gone short again like how he wore it after he did Basic, and his face is shaved.”

“Does that transformation include the original arm?” Rhodey asks, wrinkling his forehead in confusion. Helen shakes her head.

“Due to the spell Amora’s cast, Agent Barnes _looks_ like he has his original left arm back,” she clarifies. “But we ran tests and I can assure you, that’s purely a cloaking illusion. The vibranium arm is still there, but it looks and feels like an actual arm.”

Sam unleashes an almighty groan, curling inwardly on himself, and pinches the bridge of his nose with a gloved hand. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. “I’m gonna _kill_ Amora,” he growls.

“Yeah?” Tony asks, a spark in his eyes. “Well, get in line.”

“Sam’s got top priority, Tony,” Steve says. “Boyfriend overrules friend, you know that.” Tony grudgingly grumbles in response.

“It’s gonna be okay, Sam,” Rhodey reassures.

“I’m sure it is,” Sam replies, rising to his feet quickly, turning his back to them _._ “But I’d _really_ like my boyfriend back.”

He can’t help the growl in his voice; it’s the shitty situation, it’s his emotions, it’s everything all at once and it leaves him frustrated and confused. He runs a hand through his short buzzcut as he stands there in front of them. He only manages to be still for a second before whirling back to face his friends.

“I had _plans_ with that asshole this weekend!” he shouts angrily, thinking of the small gray box he always carries with him. “Big, _important_ plans!” Sam kicks out at the chair on his left in frustration, not even caring that it clatters to the ground on its side. “Fuck!”

“Relax, Sam,” Rhodey says gently, raising his hands placatingly. “Your boy’s still in there, just... _different_ is all - ”

“And that’s the other bad news,” Helen says with a sympathetic wince.

“There’s _more?!”_ Sam asks incomprehensibly, his voice rising in outrage. He’s glad that they only have to go to the Medical instead of a public hospital, where he’d no doubt be asked to keep quiet to avoid making a damn scene.

Steve takes a deep breath and turns his head to better face Sam. Around them, the floor goes still as Sam’s focus narrows in on those dark blue eyes.

“He thinks it’s 1943,” Steve answers calmly. “And he doesn’t remember anything about the future.”

Sam’s breath leaves his lungs in a _whoosh_. He takes his eyes off Steve, staring down at the floor instead, a wave of bereavement crashing down on him.

“No Hydra, no Howlies, no Azzano - nothing.” Steve continues, sounding perplexed. “All he remembers is when we went out to the Science Expo the night before he shipped out.”

Sam feels like he’s falling from the sky. Like his wings are damaged and he’s spiraling headfirst toward the ground fast - down down _down_. It reminds him of when Riley fell, and he can’t help but think this is how his dead wingman felt just before he…

His legs give out, and he falls onto the floor beside the toppled chair. All at once, the four converge on him.

“Are you alright, Sam?” Steve’s the first to ask, his blue eyes bright with panic.

“Just,” Sam rasps, his heart racing like a prized horse at the Kentucky Derby. “Gimme a minute.”

“Take deep breaths, Sam,” Helen orders. “Breathe with me.” She makes a deep noise through her nose, then expels it out of her mouth. He must have mimicked her, but he doesn’t remember because she praises him after a few minutes. Eventually, the pain begins to subside and someone hands him some water.

“I’m just gonna sit here for a minute,” he rasps once he feels relaxed enough to say so.

“Okay,” Helen acknowledges softly, brown eyes warm and sympathetic. “As I said earlier, he’s healthy, and if you want to see him when he wakes up - ”

“I’ll go in with you, Sam,” Steve affirms at once, giving him a slight reassuring smile.

“Thanks,” Sam croaks, cradling the bottled water against his chest plate.

* * *

“What can you tell us about this spell, Strange?” Steve asks the Sorcerer Supreme.

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Strange replies.

They’re in a conference room on one of the higher floors of the Tower. Around Sam, the other Avengers - Natasha, Bruce, Steve, Rhodey, and Tony - are gathered with Helen, and a projection of Strange hangs against the far wall like a painting. The Cloak of Levity floats around the Sorcerer idly as the projected golden-ringed image of him paints the conference room and its inhabitants in warm hues. He’s with one-half of the Avengers who’re still on the search for the Enchantress, while those remaining are seated around the round table with the Avengers logo embossed on the surface.

“Give us the SparkNotes version then,” Tony urges, standing up from one of the chairs.

“The short answer is yes, the spell can be broken,” Strange continues, “but I’m not sure how yet.”

“Great,” Rhodey says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What does Wanda think of all this?” asks Natasha from beside Bruce, her head tilted to the side in calculation.

“From what we’ve gathered that Steve’s told us, we agree that this spell isn’t a curse, and can’t be expected to break like one,” Strange replies. “Until we figure that out, we’re going to treat Barnes as an amnesia case.”

Steve huffs a sigh. “So what does science have to add?” he asks Tony, Bruce, and Helen who’re all at the opposite end of the table.

“Neurosurgeon,” Strange mutters under his breath, but his comment goes ignored.

“Brucie bear, you wanted to share?” Tony asks, looking down at the scientist seated with a Starkpad in hand.

“Yeah,” Bruce says, quickly adjusting his glasses so they rest high on the bridge of his nose. “Friday, project please.”

At the request, the lights are dimmed low until the room is dark, and a giant blue square holoscreen hangs above the large conference table, creating an odd mixture of blue highlights on the faces of those gathered against the warm yellow of the astral plane. The projection is made up of smaller squares and rectangles, all visually-appealing graphs, with numbers and data Sam doesn’t understand and couldn’t even begin to decipher.

Bruce clears his throat and launches into explanation-mode. “Given that Jamie still has his arm, yet the spell has made it appear that his limb has grown back, it made us curious about the serum - if it was still in his system, but hidden.”

Using one hand, Bruce swipes away some of the smaller squares and rectangles, the lens of his glasses illuminated in an eerie pale blue as he stares in concentration at the figures. He taps twice on one of these figures with a finger, and the square enlarges until it takes over the screen. It’s a wavelength graph, with a line that starts with a high spike, but gradually decreases until it’s flatlined.

“We took some of Jamie’s blood, to see how much of the serum his body has retained with the transformation,” Bruce carries on, “and it looks like a lot of the serum is still there. It’s just...dormant, for now. Asleep.”

“So what you’re saying is that there’s a possibility that the serum could be activated?” Steve asks, brow raised.

Bruce shrugs. “Probably? Maybe in an extreme situation, but we can’t really confirm that without running some tests.”

Sam scratches at an eyebrow, the frustration gnawing at his stomach. “What would happen if it _was_ activated?” he asks.

“Again, without tests, we can’t be sure.” Bruce fidgets like a little kid with a secret, and it’s got all the warning bells going off in Sam’s head.

“That can’t be all, Bruce,” Sam says to the scientist. “What aren’t you telling us?” All eyes shift towards him expectantly.

Bruce shifts uncomfortably at the attention. “Well,” he allows. Then he brings up an image of what looks like a DNA strand. “What we _can_ determine from running Jamie’s blood, is that the serum is acting like an antibody - that the body is under stress, and it’s trying to repair the damage that’s been done. Just slowly.”

“Just like the brain of any amnesiac patient,” Helen supplies. “Normal memory function involves many parts of the brain, and any disease or injury that affects the brain can interfere with the intricacies of memory.”

“What does that mean?” asks Steve, his brow knitted in confusion.

“There are different types of amnesia,” Strange starts, light eyes gone steel with severity. “Anterograde, retrograde, dissociative, post-traumatic, etcetera, and they all are different. Amnesia can result from damage to the brain structures that form the limbic system, which controls your emotions and memories.”

“From what Steve’s revealed, apart from the age regression, we think that the spell has given Jamie a form of dissociative amnesia,” Helen continues. “This would be caused by emotional shock, or trauma. With this disorder, a patient may lose personal memories and autobiographical information - but it’s usually brief.”

“ _How_ brief?” Tony presses, leaning forward in anticipation. Sam slumps in his seat. Helen winces. Strange shrugs.

“Could be days,” he says. “Could be months - ”

“Years,” she adds.

Sam’s heart sinks. “Great,” he mumbles.

“I _hate_ magic,” Tony grumbles, and Sam can’t help but agree.

“My biggest piece of advice is to just make Barnes comfortable,” says Strange. “Surround him with things he’s familiar with. Historically speaking, amnesiacs tend to get better faster if they’re around smells, sounds, or other things that are familiar. It helps the brain recover faster.”

“Okay, that’s no problem then,” Tony says brightly, clapping his hands together. “We’ll just get Frosty back onto his floor, and throw Sam at him and he’ll be good as new.”

“It’s not that easy, Tony,” Rhodey says, sighing dejectedly. Sam huffs out an angry breath.

“People with dissociative amnesia can get their missing memories back gradually or all at once,” Sam throws in, rubbing a hand across his face. “There’s no guaranteed fix-it.”

“And without Amora around, that’ll make our job helping Barnes recover harder,” Strange adds.

“Right,” Steve nods solemnly, looking to the others. Then Sam sees what he calls Cap Mode take over: Steve’s shoulders straighten, a steely resolve comes into his eyes and his jaw visibly tightens. He rises from his seat and starts snapping orders to the room.

“Nat, get into contact with all your underground leads, have them keep an ear out for Amora. I want you and Clint to lead one team of SHIELD on finding her. Rhodes, we’re gonna need eyes in the skies from you and any leads you get, and I want you to lead the second team of agents. Strange, I want you and Wanda to get started with solving this spell - see if Thor can offer an assist. Tony, have Friday use the satellites to scan for any sign of Amora in every part of the universe. Bruce, I want you and the rest of the scientists to keep watch on that serum. Avengers dismissed.”

With that, everyone in the room rises from their respective seats and shuffle out of the room. Strange’s glowy one-way mirror dissipates, and soon enough it’s just Sam, Steve and Tony left in the room.

“Right,” Tony huffs, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully as he wraps his arms around his midframe. “Looks like the Winter Soldier’s benched until further notice.”

Steve nods. “At least until Jamie’s back to his old sel - ” he cuts himself off abruptly, his teeth clacking together quickly to keep the rest of the word from spilling out. But it’s too late: it’s already out there, leaving a short awkward pause in its wake.

“Newer, slightly less-angstier self?” Tony tries.

Steve gives an awkward cough. “Uh, yeah. Th-that.”

* * *

An hour later, Sam’s back on the medical floor, just a few feet away from his boyfriend’s hospital room, staring down at the small gray box in his hands.

He fiddles with it, opening and letting his heavy stare fall onto the dark ring inside. Then he shuts it again, cutting off all the regretful thoughts that threaten to tear him apart. _It’s amazing_ , he thinks, feeling all but empty inside, _what a few minutes alone with your thoughts can do_. He heaves a heavy breath, and leans his head back, letting it thump softly against the wall behind him.

“Sam?” Steve’s voice cuts through the haze of his thoughts, interrupting his maudlin alone time. He opens his eyes to his team captain standing in front of him, staring down. Steve’s changed out of his uniform and is dressed down in a pair of jeans and a white shirt, his hair still a bit damp from a shower.

“Hey,” Sam greets unhappily, not really feeling up to putting on a happy face.

“I’m just going to go in and check on Bucky,” Steve says, and the name change makes Sam flinch. He must notice the flinch, because Steve falls silent almost immediately after speaking. “Do you wanna come in to see him?” he asks, hesitantly.

“Maybe later,” Sam whispers.

It’s Steve’s pitiful blue-eyed stare that makes Sam tear his eyes away and look back down at the little gray box in his hands. He hears rather than sees his companion slide down the wall on his left and feels the brush of his leg against his thigh. They sit there in silence, not saying anything.

“I was gonna ask him this weekend,” Sam admits quietly, indicating the box in his hands. “I was gonna take him out to our retreat on the lake and ask him.”

“He would’ve liked that,” Steve approves, and it sounds like he’s nodding.

“Thanks again for suggesting Tony make it,” Sam whispers, staring at the box between his dark fingers. “It means a lot.” The _that you approved of me_ goes without saying, but he’s sure that Steve can still hear the sentence hanging in the air regardless.

“Can I see it?” Steve asks, holding out a hand. Sam passes the closed box over without even looking at him.

Sam can hear the creak of the box opening as his friend takes a peek at the ring. Steve sits quietly, not saying a word. Sam doesn’t need to look at it again to see what’s got his team captain so silent: the ring is fitted exactly to the measurements on Jamie’s mechanical ring finger. It’s a brushed silver on the outside, black on the inside, that glints threateningly in the harsh fluorescent light of the medical floor, and yet shines brightly in the sunlight. The ring reminds Sam a lot of Jamie himself, which was why he chose the metal in the first place. 

It aches to look at it and know….

“It’s beautiful, Sam,” Steve acknowledges before closing the box again softly and passing it back to him.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, clutching the box tightly in his hand again.

They sit there in silence.

“I think we should move him up to the compound,” Sam informs him softly. He can practically hear Steve straighten with the news.

“Smart,” he nods in approval.

“It’s more secure,” Sam continues, “which limits the possibility of a surprise attack, especially if he’s off the team roster, and he’ll be less likely to be surprised by...everything. Plus we can keep better track of him.”

“He’s still in there, Sam,” Steve states, and it’s like the Accords all over again: where he fiercely believed this fact down to his bones, and tried to convince everyone around him to do the same. “Somewhere deep down, he still remembers you.”

“I don’t,” Sam starts, and Steve sits quietly, giving him time. He takes a deep steadying breath and tries again. “I don’t think I can face him,” he admits at last. Sam looks over at him, Steve’s face impassive as his blue eyes study him. “I don’t think I can go in there, look that man in the eyes - eyes I’ve come to _love_ , Steve -  and not break down. I don’t see how I can do it.”

Sam feels the beginnings of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he hunches in on himself. One hand clutches the ring’s gray box close to his chest, and the other forcefully swipes at the tears that managed to squeeze their way out of his eyes. He can hear Steve beside him, rearranging himself. In the next moment, he feels Steve’s strong solid hand settle gingerly on his flight pack, reminding him that he never even changed out of his sweaty Avengers gear, or took a shower.

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” Steve begins, thumb brushing against Sam’s shoulder blade reassuringly, the gesture grounding him. “It’s not gonna be easy - I know that, you know that, so let’s get that right out of the way. But Bucky’s alone in the future with only this dumb face of mine to look at,” he says with a soft laugh, and Sam can’t help the answering quirk to his lips. “He needs more friendly faces around him, and you’ve got the friendliest face in our group.”

Sam laughs despite himself, rubbing a finger under his nose and sniffling softly. “I think you mean better looking,” he teases, his throat feeling clogged, and Steve huffs a laugh.

“Whatever makes you feel better, pal,” Steve says as Sam pulls himself together. “Listen,” he continues, “I don’t want you to feel like you have no say in the decision-making process, or with what happens to him. I want you to know, you’ve got as much say, as much obligation - as much _right_ \- to him as I do.” Then Sam feels Steve’s shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “Maybe more than me.”

It’s that last sentence that surprises Sam into looking over at his friend.

Steve wears his emotions on his sleeve like a badge, like the boy scout Tony claims he is, and it’s no different this time. He looks self-depreciative, like he’s the worst person alive right now.

“That’s not fair,” Sam tells him plainly, and the statement makes Steve raise an eyebrow. Sam gently pounds a closed fist against his friend’s chest. “You should be the one calling the shots here, not me. You’re the closest thing to family Jamie’s got right now - ”

“Except Jamie put _you_ on his emergency contact list,” Steve replies quickly with a fact they both knew.

“Along with _yours_ , dumbass,” Sam rejoins just as quickly. “But you’re like his brother, so we’ll just _both_ have to worry about him.”

Steve huffs a disbelieving laugh. He looks back over at Sam, eyes bright with humor. “Sure, fine. We’ll take shifts,” he says, his lips ticking up into a small smile.

“I’m holding you to that,” Sam replies, giving him an answering smile.

* * *

Years of counseling have taught him that he should take this time out for himself, to regroup and recharge. So he goes home.

It’s almost three in the afternoon when Sam finally returns to Flatbush, his boots silent along the familiar concrete sidewalk.

The street in Jamie and Sam’s neighborhood is quiet, as he walks passed the squatish, two-story houses; the branches of the barren trees lining the sidewalks swaying slightly in the breeze. Only a few cars pass him by, none of them ones he recognizes. It’s early enough in the afternoon that their neighbors are either off to pick up their kids from the schools in the area, or on their way home from the city. He’s just grateful that none of the neighbors he’s become friendly with are home, as he doesn’t think he could stand to talk to any of them at the moment.

He stops in front of a reconverted two-story duplex, with a gray, shingled overhung roof, one on the top story, and a half one just underneath the second story windows, wrapping only slightly around the sides. The lower story is made up entirely of brick, with two iron-wrought railings that accompany four steps leading up to two separate entrances, both with white doors, while the above story is painted entirely in a mauve color. There’s a square area in front of the house that separates both doors, with a bit of grass and a small round shrub, and a tall tree just stretching above the separated roof. Underneath the lower gray overhang roof, above the door, the light is still on from this morning.

Sam stands on the last step leading up to his and Jamie’s house for a moment, the peaceful residential street unnerves him as he takes out his key. Usually after the kind of hospital stay he’s had, Jamie would be helping him up the four steps to the apartment, take the key from his back pocket and make Sam sit on the couch and mother-hen him like crazy until Sam finally lost it.

_“_ It’s from all those times Stevie was sick,” he’d say, sheepish after being called out. “I’m not used to not takin’ care of someone."

“You’re an idiot,” would be Sam’s customary reply before pulling him into a kiss.

Sam takes a deep breath and inserts the key into the lock.

Once he’s inside, he doesn’t let himself look around their house. Instead he makes an immediate beeline for their bedroom closet, pulls out the duffle bag he uses exclusively for his overnight missions and approaches his and Jamie’s shared dresser with purpose.

_There’s plenty of time to lose it later,_ Sam thinks to himself as he yanks open drawer after drawer, grips as many clothes possible in one hand and stuffs them into the bag. _Right now, I need to go back and be with Jamie -_

He stops mid-thought.

His fingers brush against a soft, blue sweater and it’s like all his focus is honed in on that one item, everything else wiped away. He’d forgotten about this sweater, it was one of his favorites that Jamie stole and claimed as his own. There are times where Sam steals it back to wear for a few days, and then throws it in the hamper to wash, only to turn around and see that it’s missing. Jamie wears it after he has nightmares; calls it his lucky sweater because it’s one of the few things that’ll comfort him after he’s had a bad night.

Sam finally raises his head and surveys their house, the bedroom door open wide gives him a clear view of the living room he’d passed.

There are a lot of good memories here: the stupid trophies they bought each other because they’re dumb shits that are competitive about everything. A painting Steve did of the two of them as a gift for their recent anniversary that’s hanging with pride in the living room entryway, gilded high-relief frame and all. The pictures of their fishing trip with Natasha a year ago where Jamie didn’t catch a damn thing, cute lips pulled into a pout with only his bait in hand, while next to him, Sam, a broad gap-toothed grin on his face, hauled every fish in the lake and held his prized collection in one hand. There are little joke gifts they bought each other while the other was away on a mission scattered throughout the place, looking like a decorator went crazy with cheap gift shop knick knacks.

Despite the evidence of the life they built together, a world of only two people, the two-story house feels goddamned empty.

He blinks like he’s coming out of a daze, and it’s then that he notices the _smell._ He sniffs his shoulder, and pulls his face away abruptly at the stench; his nose wrinkling at the smell of sweat and ash and blood on him. Grabbing his phone, he turns his back on their bed and heads into the ensuite bathroom for a shower, duffle bag lying forgotten by the dresser.

_Not coming back tonight,_ he texts Steve. _I’ll see you at the compound tomorrow._

He doesn’t bother waiting for a reply before setting the phone down on the sink’s counter. He doesn’t even remember turning on the shower knob, but one moment he’s dressed and standing by the shower curtain, and the next he’s naked and underneath the spray of water.

Torrents of water drip down his head, as he scrubs his face with his hands. He reaches for his body wash when his fingers stop mid-reach. The obnoxiously bright packaging of Jamie’s fruity body wash catches Sam’s eye as it sits innocently next to his own logical, non-fragrant bottle. He grabs Jamie’s bright orange bottle and pops the lid open, bringing it up to his nose as he inhales. He closes his eyes and visions of soft brown hair, steel blue eyes and a roguish grin play behind his eyelids.

He drizzles a generous amount onto his washcloth and gets to work scrubbing himself clean; the dirt and grime merge together, creating a grayish swill that rushes towards the drain before getting swallowed up through the holes. When it’s time to wash his hair, it’s Jamie’s strawberry shampoo and conditioner he uses. He stays in the shower until the hot water’s gone cold, by then his sore muscles feeling lax and at ease.

Once he’s shut off the water and climbed out of the shower, he methodically dries off with one of his towels - because he and Jamie _had_ to bicker over whose towels were whose to the point that they had to have them embroidered with their initials - and heads back into their bedroom. He throws the towel on the floor, can’t even be bothered to hang it back up in the bathroom - and Jamie was always the one who wanted things to be neat; always the one picking up after Sam - turns out the light, plunging the room into darkness and crawls into bed, pulling the blanket over him completely.

He shuffles slightly before settling into his designated spot. Despite how exhausted he is, Sam’s eyes remain open as he stares up at the ceiling. Sighing, he finally turns his head to look at the vacant spot on his left.

There was Jamie’s stupid moldable pillow beside his own, with a pillowcase decked out with miniature _Powerpuff Girls_ (“Not that reboot bullshit, Sam,” he’d said when Sam teased him about it). On the bedside table underneath his custom-made lamp - with that lampshade made out of a fugly green science lab fabric, with beakers and molecules and shit because his boyfriend is a science nerd disguised as Grumpy Cat - sat the fat biography of Samuel Steward, with almost all of its pages dog-eared because Jamie was an uncultured heathen who doesn’t respect books and likes to mark his favorite parts for Sam to read.

Next to the book was a framed pencil drawing of Sam mid-sneeze and making the ugliest face in existence. It was based on a picture Jamie had surreptitiously taken on his phone while they’d been out to lunch one day. He’d immediately texted it to Steve and commissioned his friend to draw it. Sam didn’t find out about the whole thing until the picture came in the mail days later. He’d been so angry at Jamie, but that shithead had laughed and laughed and laughed for days about the whole thing. Sam hates that picture so much, that if the house were engulfed in a fire, he’d hold that picture over the flames until it was nothing but ash.

God, he misses that asshole.

Sam huffs a breath, lifts his upper body up and shuffles over until he’s spread diagonally across their bed. He rolls onto his side, wrapping an arm around Jamie’s pillow and pulls it close to his face. He closes his eyes and burrows his nose into the fabric, inhaling the smell deeply. For the moment, he lets himself pretend that Jamie only gave Sam a scare to mess with him today, that he wasn’t really in the medical floor of Avengers Tower currently de-aged, and that he’d instead crowed with delight over the prank he’d managed to pull on Sam.

Sam would’ve been mad, sure, but he’d have forgiven him eventually after getting one of Jamie’s customary apology blowjobs. Then they’d lie in bed together, in their respective spots, cuddling. So for now, he pretends that it’s Jamie he’s holding; strands of dark hair curling underneath his nose, scarred skin beneath his calloused hands, warm back pressed against his own chest, pristine firm butt snug against Sam’s crotch, his ankle tucked between Jamie’s calves, and the two of them breathing together in tandem as sleep engulfs them.

Just for now he pretends he’s not alone in their house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://www.etsy.com/listing/259346679/tungsten-ring-mens-brushed-silver-black?utm_campaign=shopping_us_BellyssaJewelry_sfc_osa&utm_medium=cpc&utm_source=google&utm_custom1=0&utm_content=11552108&gclid=Cj0KEQjw-qbLBRD79JWsjuXI784BEiQAftBCI4U8JuDTvzuta8KAo7ezMitEwnceIUf2PCjbVSF9bEQaAjVo8P8HAQ) is Sam's engagement ring for Jamie.
> 
> The fantastic illustration above was done by the fabulous [Wolviecat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolviecat/pseuds/Wolviecat).
> 
> There is an _actual_ house in Flatbush, NY that inspired Jamie and Sam's house.


	2. If pleading keeps you from walking out that door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logically, Sam knows that the man he loves is still there - but trying to reconcile that thought with the boy he’s seeing is like hitting his head repeatedly against a brick wall and expecting it to move. Because the clean-shaven, short-haired, clean-cut bad boy of 1943 couldn’t be further from his Jamie Barnes of the present.

“You ready?” Steve asks him, one hand on the door to Jamie’s room as he looks over his shoulder at Sam.

Sam, meanwhile, stands in the hallway sweating buckets in his civilian clothes: a pair of jeans and an Air Force T-shirt.

It’s still early morning, and it hadn’t taken long for Sam to finish packing his and Jamie’s things and be driven to the compound. For all the time it took to get ready, it felt more like he’d blinked and he was already sitting in the car, watching Flatbush pass him by. He’d been vibrating with nervous energy the entire ride over; he couldn’t keep his leg from bouncing up and down, or stop himself from wiping his palms on his pants to stave off the sweat. Too soon the driver was pulling into the garage, and Steve was there to meet Sam before segueing him to the medical wing to see his boyfriend.

Sam would rather face down Thanos than to see his younger, amnesiac boyfriend.

“Yeah. Sure. Yeah,” he says, nodding his head to pump himself up. He feels like he’s gearing to jump off a helicarrier.

Steve gives him a flat look that says he doesn’t believe him. But instead of calling Sam out on the lie, he turns back and starts to open the door.

“Buck, you awake pal?” Steve asks, knocking with his other hand. He must hear some sort of answer, because he opens the door all the way, and pokes his head into Jamie’s room, Sam at his back. From inside, Sam hears an unmistakable snort.

“Here I thought you were gonna be that cute nurse I saw walking around,” his boyfriend says to his best friend, his voice sounding exactly the same.

Steve pushes the door wide to enter the room, allowing Sam to step inside beside him. “Hilarious, Barnes,” he says with an eyeroll that Sam can practically hear. “Sit up straight, I got a guest for you to meet. What would your ma say if she saw you right now?”

“Oh?” the patient asks, but Sam hears shuffling bedsheets.

Steve turns, facing Sam and his lips form an encouraging smile. With his heart thumping in his throat, Sam takes a step forward so he can see and be seen. He looks past Steve’s shoulder over at Jamie and -

_Oh._

Jamie’s sitting up straight, plump gray pillows propping him up, a blue blanket tucked into the corners of the bed and pulled up slightly above his waist, completely covering his legs - by all rights perfectly normal. But he looks so different; he looks so _young_.

His chocolate brown hair is cut, with the bangs on the right side of his face hanging over his forehead, just brushing the arch of his dark eyebrow. His jaw is strongly defined, his cheeks smooth without a wisp of hair and his lips full and plush. Both of his arms are intact, tan skin with the nails of each hand perfectly trimmed and clean; there’s not even a glimmer of silver on his left one, and Sam has to remind himself that that’s just the illusion of Amora’s spell and it’s not real.

His eyes, though, are what stop Sam’s breath.

These are not the eyes he’s come to love. They’re not the gunmetal gray Sam’s known them to be, instead these eyes are like pools of the purest blue. They’re so large and curious; there’s no weariness, no shadows of hurt lurking. Not one trace of that unmistakeable guilt for the past sixty-odd years as the Winter Soldier Jamie could never quite shake.

“Hey man,” Sam greets, raising a hand and giving the boy a warm smile. Because that’s who this was now: a _boy_.

For a minute, Jamie - _Bucky_ can only stare at Sam. His eyes, if anything, grow bigger, and his mouth drops open slightly.

“Buck?” Steve asks, canting his head to the side and a line of concern appearing between his brows.

“ _[You’d better look out little brown eyes if you’re wise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KJfO0QjvW_c)_ ,” Bucky murmurs, eyes wide and locked on Sam.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Billie Holiday?” he asks, confused.

Bucky blinks, like those were the words to break him out of his trance. His lips quirk upwards into a delighted smile. “Hey,” he says, beaming. “Glad to see seventy years in the future Lady Day still holds up.” He points a finger - his left one - at Sam, and raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Sam Wilson, right?”

“Yeah man,” Sam replies with an easy smile. He reaches out a hand towards Bucky, and the kid clamps his own in Sam’s. The boy’s got a strong grip, and Sam gives it a friendly squeeze before both of them let go.

“Steve’s been goin’ on n’ on about you, I was beginning to think he’d made you up.” Bucky says with a glittering grin.

Sam snorts a laugh. “Believe me, some days _he_ seems too good to be true.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Bucky agrees, eyeballing Steve, who’s still by the door, watching the two of them. “This whole thing feels like something out of _Astounding Stories.”_

“Don’t compare me to one of yer pulp fictions, Buck,” Steve says, and Sam’s surprised to hear the long-forgotten Brooklyn accent creep effortlessly into his speech. Steve crosses his arms over his chest, and one of Bucky’s eyebrows raises skeptically, giving him a look so dry, it puts the Sahara Desert to shame.

“Stevie,” Bucky starts, voice dripping with seriousness. “The last time I saw you, you weighed ninety pounds soaking _wet_ . Now, you’re like some sort of Hercules, and we’re apparently seventy years in the _future_ .” He shakes his head in disbelief. “What else am I _supposed_ to think?”

“In fairness,” Sam acknowledges, meeting Steve’s gaze, “you _were_ a product of science.”

“Aw, Stevie what’d you do to yourself?” Bucky laments, shaking his head. “I told you not to do anything stupid while I was gone, and look what happens!” Steve sputters, and the sight of him flustered makes Sam laugh.

“That’s not -” Steve tries, but Sam’s this side of cracking up. “I - Sam, are you gonna back me up?” he tries, turning to him for help.

“No way, man,” Sam replies, smiling widely. “You’re on your own on this one.”

“Stevie’s been in worse fights,” Bucky teases, giving Steve a shit-eating grin. “This hardly makes a dent in the shit we get up to.”

“Oh-ho don’t I know it,” Sam drawls, smiling with ease.

The words make Bucky’s eyes gleam bright with delight.

“Sounds like you got a story or two, Wilson,” Bucky replies, interest brightening his face like a lightbulb.

“Plenty,” Sam returns.

“Alright, wise guys,” Steve huffs, making his way back to the door. “I _was_ gonna give you more details about the future, Buck, but since you’re so keen on cracking jokes, I’m gonna go and do something _productive.”_

“Aw c’mon, Steve we didn’t mean it - ” Sam starts, but is cut off by Bucky’s guffaw of a laugh.

 _“_ Yeah?” asks Bucky in disbelief. “Productive like the time you got it into your skull to beat up every kid on the block who took money from you?”

Steve frowns mulishly, pink lips pulled into a pout. “Kept them from taking another dime away from the other kids, though, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, only because _I_ had to come and finish your fight for you,” Bucky grins, his teeth gleaming white and his eyes sparkling with mirth.

Sam snorts, and Steve shakes his head. “Whatever you say, Jerk.”

“You gonna find me some clothes to wear in this joint, Punk?” Bucky asks.

“If you’d like,” Steve replies, “but I don’t think there’re clothes in the future good enough to help your ugly mug.” Bucky gasps in betrayal and Sam laughs at them both.

Pleased with himself, Steve goes through the exit, his back turned on both of them.

“Get me something good!” Bucky calls out, but the door is shut before he can finish his sentence.

Sam shakes his head in amusement and turns back to look at Bucky...who’s _smiling_ at him like a cat smiles at a canary just before it gobbles the poor thing up.

“So,” Bucky starts, pink tongue darts out to lick his lips and eyes giving Sam a slow once-over before snapping back up to meet Sam’s eyes. Bucky breaks out into a salacious smirk. “You’re my fella, huh?”

Sam blinks, completely at a loss for words.

“Who told you?” he asks, his forehead creased. There was no sense in denying it, but he’d been hoping that the subject matter wouldn’t be brought up until never. Goddammit now he was gonna have to _kill_ somebody - and that somebody was probably going to be _Steve_.

Bucky shrugs noncommittally, turning his face away to look down at the blanket on his legs.

“Word gets around,” he replies easily, his fingers playing with the fabric. “People check up on the invalid, but forget that the patient’s awake enough to listen, and just...talk. You hear all kinda things.”

Sam snorts in disbelief. “It was the redhead, wasn’t it?” he asks, giving Bucky a flat look.

“Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t,” he says evasively. It doesn’t escape Sam’s notice that Bucky looks anywhere but at him.

Sam sighs melodramatically and looks up at the ceiling. He was gonna have to kill Natasha; he _loves_ Natasha. He chooses to ignore that problem for now, and instead grabs a chair from the wall opposite the bed. He grips it by the backrest, lifts it, and sets it down at the foot of Bucky’s bed. Then he plants himself down.

He takes a good look at the kid.

The boy’s eyes stare right back at him, inquisitive and the brightest blue that Sam’s ever seen; it reminds of the marbles he used to play with as a kid. His hair is soft and tastefully disheveled, and his lips a bee stung pout.

 _So this is Bucky Barnes_ , Sam thinks, and it’s like he’s looking at a moving photograph. The youth Steve had told him about with lips that could spin a lie so pretty, men and women would line up around the block just to hear it. The boy who’s known Steve since they were both in short pants, one half to the ‘inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield’. The smartest kid in the classroom and the guy all the girls wanted on their arm.

The sight reminds him of a line from _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ : “Life has everything in store for you, Dorian. There is nothing that you, with your extraordinary good looks, will not be able to do.”

That’s only on the surface, anyway. Way down deep, Sam knows that this kid is working hard to take care of everybody on his block, including his own family. This kid’s got a fiery spirit and would get into bar fights just to keep his scrawny friend out of trouble.

Logically, Sam knows that the man he loves is still there, laid up in that bed - but trying to reconcile that thought with the boy he’s seeing is like hitting his head repeatedly against a brick wall and expecting it to move. Because the clean-shaven, short-haired, clean-cut bad boy of 1943 couldn’t be further from his Jamie Barnes of the present.

“What else do you know?” Sam asks, folding his arms over his chest and quirking an eyebrow. Bucky shrugs.

“Nothing really,” he admits. The admittance fills Sam with relief; dealing with a younger version of his boyfriend is one thing, but adding on that with the fact that the kid’s future self was an assassin for a Nazi organization for sixty-odd years is a can of worms he is _not_ ready to open. “Nobody seems to want to tell me anything around here, except for Red. But then all she told me was that you and I are going steady.”

It takes so much effort for Sam to keep himself from snorting, instead he briefly blinks away. _Going steady._ It’s so innocent and goddamn sweet, Sam might get a cavity just hearing the words. Somehow just hearing them further drives home the fact of how _young_ Bucky is.

Sam looks up from his musings and blinks in surprise. Bucky is staring at him from beneath half-lidded eyes; it’s a look so filled with lust that it almost makes Sam shiver. Instead of saying anything, he just stares at Bucky expectantly.

“Which, I gotta say,” Bucky continues, voice gone low and promising, “makes me jealous of my future self.”

Sam blinks, but quickly smooths the look from his face, replacing it with a smile.

“Really laying it on thick there, don’t you think?” he says with amusement, his heart jumping in anticipation.

Bucky smirks. “Ain’t a hardship, Sam. Especially when everything I gotta say about you is true.”

“Well, just so we’re clear,” Sam admonishes, giving him a hard look. “I’ve considered you off-limits.”

Bucky lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Can I ask why?”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t cheat on my boyfriends,” he replies. “Plain and simple.”

Bucky blinks, eyes wide in disbelief and mouth open. Then he flops back dramatically against the pillows, his hair brushing across his forehead with the movement.

“Damn,” he says with a gusty sigh, closing his eyes. Sam furrows his forehead, perplexed.

 _“I don’t cheat on my boyfriends,”_ Bucky repeats, his bright blue eyes blinking rapidly like he’s processing what’s just happened. It had sounded a bit like...admiration? Sam narrows his eye, as though he could see everything in that sentence alone if he just looks hard enough.

“That’s it,” Bucky continues, sighing dejectedly. Sam snaps his eyes up to look at his, and Bucky’s staring right back at him: blue eyes bright and full of hero worship. “I can see why future me likes you.”

“Yeah,” Sam replies, his voice quiet. His fingers dig into the muscles of his arms as he looks away. “Yeah, he does.”

A knock at the door makes them both look up.

Natasha’s standing just in the doorway, dressed down in jeans, sneakers and a dark plain V-neck shirt and a navy and white letterman jacket; her red hair wavy and chopped at her shoulders, eyes attentive to every unseen detail.

“I got some clothes for you, Squirt,” she says, holding up a brown paper bag for them to see.

“Thought Stevie was gonna get ‘em for me,” Bucky says, his brow furrowed in suspicion as Natasha saunters into the room, her hips swinging. Sam raises an eyebrow at her.

“Change of plans,” she replies, unexpectedly tossing the bag at Bucky. He catches it, but pouts, clearly not happy with the new arrangement.

Sam’s head snaps up to look up at her, hopeful. Her eyes flick to him and she gives a minute shake of her head. He slumps back into his seat, all the anticipation leaving him in a breath.

“Is that the way this place treats its guests?” Bucky asks Natasha as Sam rises from the chair.

“No, but it is the way _I_ treat my guests,” she states plainly, Sam brushing past her.

“I gotta go,” Sam says in a rush, practically running to the doorway of the room.

“Sam?” Bucky asks, confused.

Sam uses a moment to take a quick breath, and plasters one of his friendliest smiles on his face. He turns back to look at them. Bucky’s looking at him with clear hurt on his face, his forehead knitted in concern. Natasha, as always, is playing it close to the chest but is watching him, the calculation clear in her green eyes.

“Don’t worry, you’ll see me around, Barnes,” Sam assures. He takes a deep breath, and it’s like trying to breathe after being stabbed in the gut: watery and with effort. “It was nice to meet you.”

Then he leaves through the door.

“Sam - ” he hears Bucky start.

“Let him go,” he hears Natasha say, but he’s already down the hall and it doesn’t matter what else she says.

* * *

The cafeteria of the Avengers Compound isn’t really busy at this time of day.

There are just a few people around to make it clear that the canteen is open, and those working are finishing setting up in preparation for the upcoming lunch rush. Apart from serving him, no one bothers Sam, to which he is grateful.

The walls are painted in muted tones of blue, and there are tables in the center of the room that are in a complementary shade of egg yolk yellow, with four hard-backed chairs at each table. A wall of windows face the left side of the tables, stretching from floor to ceiling, all looking out to the concrete courtyard with the two sets of winding staircases, three or so trees to add color and oxygen, and a few SHIELD personnel walking to their various destinations.

There are three vending machines lined near the entrance, but anyone who feels like having a full meal have a long line of glass displaying the food to choose from, with professional chefs on call 24/7. The food ranges from comfort food to gourmet, made fresh daily and meets the strict medical standards by the doctors Tony Stark employs.

Sam’s sitting at one of the tables the farthest away from the entrance, but not so far that he can’t be seen, but more towards the middle tables, away from the windows. He doesn’t know if it’s just the time of day or his mood, but it looks like it’s going to be a dull gray kind of day.

He stares down at the tray of food in front of him. He’s gone for a bowl of macaroni and cheese, water, a bright green apple with some carrots, and a small bowl of coleslaw.

He’s grateful that the canteen has a wide variety of food, and feels only a little bad that he’s not taking full advantage of the spread, but sometimes simple is better. Besides, his stomach wouldn’t be able to take it if he ate lobster with steak, and his appetite is practically non-existent at the moment, so the food he’s chosen is more for looks rather than actual hunger.

Sam picks up his plastic fork and pokes at his mac and cheese, hunched over his tray, feeling morose and discouraged. Thinking back on his visit with Bucky doesn’t really help his appetite, but he knows he has to eat something - _someone_ has to practice good self-care around here.

“Want a little pudding to help you turn that frown upside-down?” Natasha’s voice asks, cutting through the cloudy thoughts hanging over Sam’s head.

He closes his eyes and prays for patience. Sam should’ve known that hiding out in the cafeteria wouldn’t stop Natasha from seeking him out. He lifts his head to peer up at her.

At first, all he sees is her left hand outstretched, a big bowl of rice pudding resting in the center of her palm, soft-looking creamy lumps of rice melded together with a light dusting of dark cinnamon on top, saran wrapped to stay fresh. It’s a peace offering if there ever was one. Satisfied that he’s seen the goods, Natasha places it pointedly down in front of him, right on his dark green tray of food nestled between the coleslaw and carrots, as if he would have trouble noticing it if it weren’t directly in his line of sight.

“Why’re you trying to be nice?” he asks her while she sits in the chair across from him without even waiting for an invitation to join him. She leans into his space and picks up one of his carrots before pulling back.

“I’m always nice,” she replies as she settles back into her seat. She takes an obnoxiously loud bite of the carrot.

“Uh-huh,” he mutters as she chews. Once she’s comfortable and finished the piece, she crosses her arms and watches him like she’s waiting for the desired results of her science experiment. He stares down at his food, to avoid looking into her observant eyes.

They sit there in a slightly tense silence for a few minutes, neither of them making a move to speak first. Sam takes small bites of his meal, not really enjoying it like he usually would. Natasha sits across from him, taking carrots from his tray to munch on as she stares out the window. “Rabbit food diet,” she’d once told him with a laugh, because they both knew she could eat an entire pizza by herself if she wanted to.

“Barnes looked alright,” she states factually, in-between loud crunches of the carrot.

It’s an unnecessary statement, but it’s effective in making Sam look up at her. She’s still staring outside as she chews, her scarlet hair artfully arranged over her shoulders. It’s her poking-the-bear technique, one that he’s more than familiar with. One that he had used during his time as a VA counselor himself.

“Yeah,” he agrees, looking briefly back down at his macaroni and cheese.

“Something you wanna talk about, Sam?” she asks quietly. He lifts his head and sees her staring right back at him, not moving an inch.

That’s one of the things Sam loves about Natasha: she always cuts right to the chase.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” he asks, pushing his tray a few inches to the side, not bothering to pretend he’s hungry enough to finish his meal.

He stares at her, directly into her eyes, and for the first time notices small flecks of brown and cobalt in them. They're penetrating, evaluating - effortlessly seeing through his bullshit. Natasha arches one perfect dark copper eyebrow.

“Why’d you tell Bucky about me and Jamie?” he asks, interpreting her expression as the question she won’t ask.

Her gaze shifts away, her face painted with guilt. Then just as quick, her eyes meet his, and they’ve hardened with determination, all traces of the expression she was wearing wiped away. “Thought I’d do you the favor of taking the awkward out of the situation,” she explains, her voice low.

“Are you sure you didn’t just make it more awkward?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Yes,” she answers without hesitation.

He raises an eyebrow. “Just how much did you tell him anyway?”

“Steve took care of a lot of it,” she says easily. This isn’t news to Sam: he figured his best friend would take care of all the talking since Steve’s the only friend Bucky knows in this time.

Her small hand darts forward, grips the tray of food and drags it closer until it’s directly in front of her. She picks up Sam’s discarded fork and starts lightly stabbing cheesy noodles, gathering them onto the tines of the fork.

“Steve only told Barnes what he thought he needed to know,” she continues. “He summarized the war in three seconds flat and how Barnes got there - leaving out the Winter Soldier bits,” she clarifies before taking a bite.

“I gathered as much,” Sam agrees as she chews.

Natasha swallows and starts speaking again. “Bits and pieces about the future - things like that.” She breaks eye contact and piles her fork with noodles again. “He mentioned you in passing. As in, ‘Bucky, you have a boyfriend’ - but nothing concrete like your name. He thought he was doing you a favor, to spare your feelings.” She takes a bite of food, eyes drifting shut, giving him a moment of privacy.

It stings a little, but Sam can understand why Steve did it - given his emotional and mental state yesterday, he would have done the same thing if he were in his friend’s position. He places a hand on his face and scrubs his forehead.

“Then I gather you filled him in on the details,” he finishes for her.

“Naturally,” Natasha says with a pleased smirk, like Sam answered a test question correctly. He shuts his eyes and sighs. Once he’s ready, he rests his chin in the palm of his hand, his elbow on the table, and stares at her.

“So what did you say exactly?” he asks wearily, only a little bit afraid of what the answer will be.

She maintains eye contact with him, green eyes sparkling as she takes a large bite to stall her response. She leaves him to sweat it out while she silently chews. He frowns at the tactic, impatient and displeased.

“I said,” she begins once she’s done eating. “‘His name is Sam Wilson. You love him.’”

Sam blinks, the response taking him by surprise and startling him like a cold bucket of water poured onto his head.

“‘You didn’t have the perfect meet-cute most couples have,’” Natasha continues, eyes downcast as she idly plays with the remainder of her food, like she has all the time in the world to waste. “‘It took a long time for you to get your head out of your ass to ask him out on a date, but you did and now you’ve been dating for two and a half years. You live in Flatbush together.

“‘Sam loves birds and has an addiction to the Real Housewives of Atlanta. He has a niece and nephew who adore you, siblings who would do anything for you, and a mom who loves you like a son. The rest you have to find out on your own.

“‘I’m gonna level with you, Barnes,’” she continues, her voice taking on an edge. It’s the same tone of voice she uses while she’s interrogating a drug lord and the subtle change makes unease snake up Sam’s spine, but he forces his expression to remain neutral. “‘You did a lot of bad shit in your life - a lot of it that I don’t think will ever see the light of day. I know only a few of them because I was there when you did them. Sam Wilson is a good man, better than the rest of us put together and he deserves the best.’”

Natasha takes one last bite of the macaroni and cheese, leaving the bowl completely empty and pushes the tray towards the center of the table, between them. Then she leans forward, arms resting on the table. The ends of her hair shift forward with the movement, almost touching her chin. Her blank mask expression sets over her face, and her eyes take on a dangerous glint, threatening like the gleam of a knife’s blade in the dark.

She points that stare right at him.

 _“‘Don’t_ you hurt him,’” she growls, her eyes hardened and brows drawn together in a snarl.

Sam’s breath clicks in his throat.

Very slowly, like a cobra retracting from its strike position, Natasha settles back into her chair, and resumes her slouch. She takes the apple from Sam’s tray, raises it to her nude lips, and takes a bite.

It’s rare that any of the Avengers speak directly about their feelings, and Sam isn’t stupid to the fact that out of everyone on the team, he’s probably the only one who even remotely has his shit together. Apart from him and Jamie, none of his teammates even speak about how much they might like or respect the other one - but they always demonstrate it. Through casual touches, shoulder bumps, gifts in the form of weapons, popcorn passes or watching each other’s back on the field, it’s always visually evident how much they care about each other.

This is the closest thing that Sam’s ever come to hearing how much Natasha likes him.

He lets silence hang over them. She keeps eating her apple, and he’s staring down at his empty bowl of food.

“You didn’t answer my question though,” he points out, flicking his gaze up at her, watching as she continues to eat.

Green eyes stare at him expectantly.

“Why did you tell him?” he asks.

“Because he needs you,” she replies without pause, the juice from the apple staining her cheeks.

Sam stares back at her. Her expression softens significantly as she places the fruit down.

“Sam,” Natasha leans forward, the apple sitting forgotten by her elbow. “He’s a kid stuck in the future, with no idea if he’s going to be able to get home. The last thing he remembers is getting ready to ship out to fight in the biggest war of his lifetime. Now he wakes up, seventy _years_ in the _future_. His best friend has become a legendary superhero overnight, more wars have happened after the last one he remembers promised to end them all, and everyone he knows is either dead or in a home. He’s got nothing to hold him here.”

Sam blinks in surprise. “But _Steve’s_ here,” he objects, brow furrowing in concern.

“That doesn’t count,” she replies, shaking her head slightly. “You know just as well as I do that war changes a person. Steve’s not the same guy Bucky left behind, so he might as well be a stranger to him.”

Sam’s gaze shifts away. It hadn’t dawned on him before that Steve being here for Bucky could be a problem to his recovery.

“But you,” she continues, her voice low and reverent. “You’re his future self’s boyfriend. You’re new and exciting, and he’s curious to know you - to know _why_ his future self fell for you. You’re the fresh start he needs.”

Her fingers brush across his hand, startling him into looking back up at her. Her intense green eyes stare right back at him.

“ _You’re_ his anchor to the future,” she whispers, her hand gripping his own to emphasize her point.

They stay like that for a long time, her hand over his own, rubbing her thumb soothingly over his knuckles.

After what feels like a lifetime of pause, time resumes its natural pace, and Natasha retracts her hand, leaving the cool of the air-conditioned room to flood the nerves in his hand. She leans back into her seat and a picks up his rice pudding from the tray that had been pushed aside without his noticing.

She sets the bowl in front of him before picking up his fork and pointedly placing it down next to the rice pudding. Then she picks up his tray of food in both hands, and starts to rise from the table. She stares at him one last time. Something about his current state must satisfy her, because she gives a small nod of approval, rounds the table, and makes her way towards the exit.

It’s like how he would behave around his mom. ‘Good’ Sam would be respectful of his mom’s rules around the dinner table: say your prayers, napkin on your lap, back straightened - but when she was satisfied that he was behaving, he’d immediately loosen up and let himself take over again.

He hunches forward, grips the saran wrap between his fingers and pulls it free from the rice pudding. He picks up his fork and starts digging in.

“Thanks Nat,” he murmurs, before taking a bite of the sweet bundle.

“Anytime Sam,” she replies as she walks away.

* * *

Sam takes the elevator back to the floor he and Bucky used as their own whenever they visited the compound. He’s not completely sure what he’s going to do when he gets there, but is set on the destination nonetheless. He’s just stepping into the hallway leading to their bedroom and the guest bedroom/storage room, when he stops in his tracks.

Bucky’s sitting on the floor next to the door leading to their room.

Sam blinks in surprise. Instead of the white hospital gown he’d seen him in, Bucky is dressed in a pair of jeans, a loose fitting white shirt and a pair of black loafers. He notices that Bucky’s hair is still free of any product to hold it in place.

Before Sam’s mind comes up with the idea to retreat, Bucky’s head shifts to the side, turning towards where Sam is standing and he opens his eyes. Pale blue eyes immediately lock onto Sam.

Then fearing - correctly - that Sam was gonna leave, Bucky rushes to stand. It’s that swift shuffle forward movement to realign his feet underneath him that forces Sam to look away from the sight. Whenever he and Jamie would get into a fight, they would do this exact song and dance: they would split up to cool off, and when Sam was done and just getting into the hallway leading to their floor, he’d find Jamie sitting with his back to the wall beside the doorframe of their bedroom, waiting for him.

It’s that comparison between Jamie and his past self that hurts like an iron band wrapping itself tightly around Sam’s heart.

Instead of breaking down like he wants to, Sam takes a deep breath, and keeps walking forward towards their room. But he can’t really bare to look at him right now, so Sam keeps his gaze averted from Bucky’s.

“Hey look, Sam, I’m sorry,” Bucky immediately apologizes when Sam gets closer, already on his feet and his voice sounding gutted. Sam snaps his head up, surprised.

The kid’s staring at him, like he’s done something wrong. His forehead is creased in sympathy and his bright eyes shimmer with guilt. He runs a hand through his bangs, pushing them back over the crown of his head, strands of brown hair escaping from in-between his fingers.

“I know this whole thing is weird,” he mutters, “and I’m sorry I was flirting with you when it’s obvious that this situation is hurting you too.”

“You’ve got no reason to apologize, man,” Sam replies, the sentence already there on his tongue before Bucky even finishes talking. “It’s not your fault that you’ve been…” _deaged? Age regression-ed?_ Sam winces at the word that pops into his head as a substitute. “Magicked.”

“Does that happen a lot?” Bucky asks, genuinely curious.

“Not to you,” Sam replies with a shake of his head. “But to everyone else, once in a while. We’ve been turned into cats, had flower crowns grow out of our heads to show what mood we’re in, sprouted tentacles - don’t ask - but none of us has had age regression. You’re the first one this particular pain in the ass has happened to.”

“Hurray for me,” Bucky mutters sarcastically and Sam has to smile.

“You been waiting long?” Sam asks, changing the subject. Bucky shakes his head.

“Nah,” he replies, casually leaning back against the wall, looking for all the world like James Dean. “They let me out a coupla minutes ago and Steve pointed me in the right direction. I just...” he looks uncomfortable, his shoulders rising up and his gaze shifting away. “Had to apologize.”

“It’s alright,” Sam murmurs. “You’re a good kid, and I know you wouldn’t intentionally hurt me. I’m fine with some flirting now and then, just...ease up a little, alright?”

That seems to reassure Bucky, as he just about gives a sigh of relief, his shoulders droop and his expression brightens as he looks back at Sam. “No problem,” Bucky says smiling, making the iron band around Sam’s heart constrict.

“Come on,” Sam continues, with an easy smile. “I’ll show you to your room. It’s on Steve’s floor.”

“But we’re on the same floor,” Bucky points out, staring.

Sam blinks in surprise. Does he…?

“Steve told me,” Bucky corrects quickly, cutting that train of thought off. “I guess we were moved on the same floor when we started to get serious?” he sounded confident at the start, but the tail end of the sentence lifts it into a question.

Sam nods, giving a roll of his eyes and a small smile at the memory. “Tony - you haven’t met him yet, but you will - said it would save space in the compound if he just moved us together on one floor, and put a guest room in for when we argue.” Sam returns his gaze to Bucky’s face. He looks lost in thought and Sam’s smile immediately dims. “If you’re uncomfortable - ” he starts but Bucky’s already shaking his head.

“Steve already offered to have me bunk with him, but I turned him down,” he clarifies. “I love Stevie and all, but…” he pauses, at a loss for words and letting the silence hang.

“But it’s not the same,” Sam finishes for him. Bucky snaps his gaze back to Sam, his pale blue eyes widening in surprise.

“Exactly!” he exclaims, excited. But then his smile dims and his gaze shifts away again, his whole mood turned down like it’s on a dial. “It just. It’s weird, ya know? Feels like I slept through the whole thing; I missed so much.”

Sam lets that thought sink in. _Looks like Natasha was right,_ he thinks. Then immediately amends that thought with a _but then what else is new?_

“’Sides,” Bucky starts, drawing back Sam’s attention. Bucky gives Sam an appraisal that’s downright filthy. “I’d rather have a pretty face like yours to see every morning,” he practically purrs with a smirk.

Sam gives him a flat look as he pushes past Bucky to open the door to his room. “I’m sure they showed you how to work the door?” He asks.

Bucky, to his credit, takes the hint that now’s not the time, and steps off the wall and makes his way across the hall to his own bedroom. But not before turning around to watch Sam as he walks backwards, hands crossed behind his back.

“Nothing’s changed _that_ much in the future,” Bucky says, disappointment clear in his tone that makes the corners of Sam’s mouth tick up.

“Did you ever get the tour?” Sam asks, turning back to face the kid, who’s taken up his previous position on the opposite wall.

“No,” Bucky admits with a pout. “I was hoping you could do it?" 

“I could,” Sam says making it sound like he’s actually thinking about it. It doesn’t escape Sam’s notice that Bucky takes on the appearance of a puppy that just heard the word ‘walk’. _Gotta admit,_ he allows himself, _the kid_ is _cute._ “But maybe it’d be better if Friday did?”

Bucky’s face scrunches up in adorable confusion. “Who?”

“Friday?” Sam practically sing-songs, the tune lifting towards the ceiling.

“Yes, Sam?” the AI’s Irish lilt breaks through the speakers, startling the _hell_ out of Bucky, making him practically jump. Sam has to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“Who said that?” Bucky asks, looking around wildly.

“That’s the computer that runs the compound,” Sam replies. Bucky looks at him, expression open and eyes big in wonder.

“You have a _computer_ that runs your house?” he asks, tone mystified.

“Yeah,” Sam replies. “Not everyone does, just the Avengers. Friday, could you take us on a tour of the compound?”

“Certainly. Sergeant Barnes, if you’ll follow Sam down the hall, we can begin.” Friday cordially says, sounding pleased as punch. Sam takes a few steps forward, watching Bucky stare up at the ceiling, looking like a little kid gazing up at the stars as he mimics Sam’s movements.

“Just Bucky is fine, ma’am,” Bucky corrects respectfully.

“Bucky then,” Friday responds, a smile clear in her voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fell in love with you the first time I looked into them there eyes  
> And you have a certain lil cute way of flirtin' with them there eyes  
> They make me feel so happy, they make me feel so blue  
> I'm fallin', no stallin' in a great big way for you
> 
> My heart is jumpin' you started somethin' with them there eyes  
> You'd better look out little brown eyes if you're wise  
> They sparkle, they bubble, they're gonna get you  
> In a whole lot of trouble, oh baby, them there eyes
> 
>  _Them There Eyes_ , Billie Holiday


	3. Half a man with no sense of pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your friend tried to interfere with my plans,” Amora states, her voice as cool as ice and the expression on her face looks like it could freeze the Human Torch. “That is reason enough to put him in his place.”

Over the next few weeks, Sam and the other Avengers get to know Bucky Barnes. 

At the end of that first tour around the compound, Friday pretty much became the bestest friend Bucky has in the future. Sam admits it was actually pretty cute watching Bucky talk to Friday, his eyes lit up in excitement as he animatedly asked her questions, completely forgetting that Sam was standing next to him during the entirety of the tour. Sam tried only once that first hour to make his excuses and retreat, but all Bucky did was put a hand at his elbow and look up at him with those baby blues and Sam didn’t try to leave again.

Dinner that night with the rest of the team was subdued and somber, a stark contrast to how dinners usually go when the Avengers are around one table together. It’s where food fights happen, dinner rolls are thrown across the tables to anyone who requests one, drinking contests emerge, and arm wrestling for the last chicken wing are regular occurrences. For the first five minutes that night, it was awkward sitting snug between Bucky and Steve, watching while some of the others - Thor, Tony, Rhodey, Natasha, and Clint - tried to be on their best behavior.

The tension was only cut by some lame ass joke Bucky made at his own expense, and everyone laughed. Then just like that, everything went back to normal, and the dinner was just as catastrophic as usual.

The days following Bucky’s transfer to the compound are sprinkled with Bucky spending one-on-one time with every one of the Avengers. After about a month, it gets to a point where he develops a routine of it, splintering up his weekdays with each of them.

Mondays he keeps his training schedule with Natasha, and they spar in one of the gyms. Despite his bragging that he can hold himself in a fight, Sam notices that it’s Natasha that’s serving Bucky up a can of whoop ass. Sam asked him once why he kept it up, despite not remembering that he and Nat had this whole setup for a while now.

“I gotta tell you, Sammy, she still scares the shit out of me,” Bucky had admitted, “and I knew if I said no, she would kick my ass to California and back without chipping a nail.”

“Very smart of you,” Sam praised and Bucky beamed.

On Tuesdays Bucky tinkers away in the garage with Tony, talking science and impressing the hell out of the billionaire with his knowledge on mechanics, space, and general geekery over his AI. When Bucky found out that Tony helped create Vision, and that Bruce had a hand in that too, all bets were off and Bucky was officially made a Science Bro. Wednesdays and Thursdays, Bucky alternates between meeting up with Thor, hanging out with Wanda and helping her with her college homework, or going to his checkups over in the medical wing of the compound to see if his condition has a hell’s chance of improving or not.

“Only time can tell,” says Helen sympathetically whenever Sam asks about that, leaving him dejected each and every time.

Steve’s days are Fridays, and they feature more comprehensive lessons in the future, and sometimes just good old reminiscing. Saturdays are the video game tournaments between Clint, Sam, Bucky, and Wanda depending on what game it is. Those are followed by team movie night, where they have been showing Bucky the movies he’s missed. Sundays are the quiet days, where Bucky will just hang out on their floor, reading or just shooting the breeze with Sam.

It’s nice, and it’s almost like normal, except that Sam still goes to sleep alone without his boyfriend entangled in their sheets or wrapped up in his arms. The thought of what he’s lost still makes Sam’s heart ache, and he has to be left alone for stretches of time when that happens.

“He likes you, you know,” Wanda informs Sam when he’s on one of these time-outs.

Sam frowns. “I was aware of that, kiddo,” he says, making her purse her lips.

“He follows you around like a cat,” she tells him plainly.

“Dog,” he corrects, not able to help himself. She gives him a careless shrug.

“Cat, dog, toad, it does not matter,” she says, her accent makes the words sound harsher. Her gray-green eyes stare at him intensely, and Sam’s reminded of his talk with Natasha two and a half months ago. “He is aware of your moods, and he does not mean to hurt you. He’s trying.”

Sam can’t help the shame and guilt rising up inside, but he can only say “I know. I’m trying, too.” For a minute, neither of them speaks, Wanda waiting for him to put his thoughts together, and him not ready to voice them. “It’s just,” he huffs an exhaustive breath. “He reminds me so much of what I’ve lost.”

Wanda is silent, her eyes peering deeply into his, like she’s in a trance. That’s when he sees them take on a scarlet tint and notices a tickling in the back of his brain. Sam’s first instinct is to recoil, to fight the alien sensation in his head, but he forces himself to remain calm; knowing Wanda wouldn’t mess with his brain.

He lifts an eyebrow.

“Wanda Elizabeth Maximoff,” Sam scolds, channeling his mother. “Don’t you go poking around my head without my permission.”

“That is not my name,” she replies but does as he asks: the tickling in his brain disappears and her eyes turn back to their original color. “My middle name is not Elizabeth.”

“Well, I have no idea what your middle name is,” he replies, turning his face away from her to avoid her gaze. “I had to use something.”

“Sam,” Wanda says, in a gentle tone of voice. She’s stepped closer to him and rests a delicate hand on his forearm. “We will get him back. You will see.”

Then she turns around and walks back out the way she came.

“She’s been hanging around Natasha too much,” Sam mutters to himself.

* * *

The search for Amora continues.

Eventually, it gets to a point where the Avengers have a roster rotation of active teammates, those on the witchhunt, and those who need to rest. But without any leads, it’s hard to keep it up and fracturing the group isn’t good for any big world battles that - so far - haven’t happened yet.

There are a few instances that require a small team of the Avengers, but nothing earth-endangering that makes it necessary to stop the search.

But they all know that it’s just a matter of time. 

* * *

To everyone’s surprise, it’s Strange who ends up finding Amora into the fifth month of their search.

Sam’s in the middle of a chess game with Steve in the communal floor when he gets the news. In no time at all they’re in a car, rushing to the new SHIELD headquarters not far from where the compound is. For the first time in their friendship, it’s _Sam_ who’s the one to walk into a building demanding answers. He and Steve are taken down to the lower levels where their adversaries are imprisoned before they’re ushered into a harshly lit hallway made of steel with reinforced glass used to keep anyone from escaping their cells.

When they quickly approach the specially designed magic-proof area, Thor, Strange, Wanda, Natasha, and Tony are there waiting for them. The five of them are in their Avengers gear and stand in front of a yellow glass separator sealing the cell shut. The group’s entire stance reads ‘battle ready’.

As Sam’s walking towards the group, at Steve’s heels as fucking usual, he shifts his gaze from the back of Steve’s head to the yellow blur of the cells doors on his right as he passes them. It’s right then that he catches sight of the Enchantress.

She’s peering at him like a giant looking down at an ant, eyelids half-lowered in boredom. Her large sharp-edged crown rests just on the widow’s peak of her forehead, her long golden hair flows like water down her back ending just below her hips - not a strand out of place. The yellow of the glass distorts the color of her emerald green dominatrix outfit, thigh-high boots, and crown, turning them lime green.

This entire setup reminds Sam of when Clarice met Hannibal Lecter in _The Silence of the Lambs_ , except he’s eerily calm instead of terrified. The stillness of the situation feels like the moment just before a storm hits.

He stops next to Natasha, standing beside her while the others make room for him as they stand around the cell. Natasha’s expression is like granite as she locks eyes on Amora, her back ramrod straight and her arms crossed over her chest.

“Where was she?” Steve asks Strange quietly from behind Sam, as he stares at the goddess.

“She was hiding out in one of the interplanetary dimensions,” Strange replies, matching the whisper. “She was trying to get a small army together to join her to attack the Earth.” Steve makes a noise of acknowledgment. Sam doesn’t look around to see what the rest of his team is thinking.

“Amora,” Steve greets the Enchantress, his Captain Mode activated. She quirks an eyebrow.

“Avengers,” she greets in return, giving a small incline of her head in recognition.

No one says a word.

“Okay, let’s cut to the chase,” Tony says after a moment, his tone one of frustration. There’s the sound of his armor shifting positions as he changes his stance. “You _know_ we’ve been out looking for you for _months_ , and you _know_ the reason why you’re being held here. So just give us what we want, and we’ll be on our way: you a one-way ticket back to Asgard, and us back home to our state of the art television and PBS.”

“There is a _Great British Baking Show_ marathon,” Wanda explains, her accent a touch thick and her big eyes luminous. “I do not want to miss Mary Berry.”

“Oh?” Amora asks, lifting an eyebrow and feigning surprise as she ignores the youngest Avenger. “And what is it you want?”

“We want our friend back,” growls Natasha, and Sam’s eyes cut to the side to catch a glimpse of her expression: her eyebrows are drawn together, lips curled in a snarl and there is fury blazing in those green eyes of hers.

Amora purses her lips together in thought. But her expression starts to crack, her lips turning up into a smirk that she’s trying to suppress. Then she throws her head back and _laughs._

Her laughter is unrestrained, loud, and piercing. It echoes down the hall for their other captured enemies to hear and sends a chill running down Sam’s spine. The Enchantress’ hands go to her stomach, and she clutches her midsection tightly in an effort to hold herself upright. She leans forward and shuts her eyes tight, squeezing out a couple of tears in the process. A ball of rage lights itself in Sam’s core, and his fists clench tightly at his sides; he can feel the room’s energy charge with anger, his friends feeling the same way he does.

“You Midgardians are so _adorable_ ,” Amora finally says, cooing as she wipes away a tear with a sharp, green-nailed finger. The anger in the room ratchets upwards by ten levels. “Now I see why you spend days among them, Thor - they are so _naive!_ So _precious!”_

“You had _no_ reason to interfere with the life of my friend!” Thor thunders angrily, his fist raised with Mjolnir in hand, and Sam can see from the reflection of the glass that he’s ready to command lightning: his usually friendly face is distorted in rage and he’s taking full advantage of his size and bulk. “He did _nothing_ to deserve this disturbing treatment!”

“Your friend tried to interfere with my plans,” Amora states, her voice as cool as ice and the expression on her face looks like it could freeze the Human Torch. “That is reason enough to put him in his place.”

There’s a collective intake of breath, and Sam could practically hear the outrage in the upcoming arguments, the threats and the insults that would go flying between the Avengers and this Asgardian. He could see the time that would be spent trying to solve this puzzle and Jamie staying this way forever.

Before anyone can say anything, Sam moves.

He takes three large steps up to the glass until it's inches away from his face. If the thick layer of glass had not been there to separate them, Sam would be right in Amora’s face, but he contents himself with being close enough for his message to get across. He bangs a fist against the glass hard enough that it wobbles microscopically. The sound is so loud, it shocks his team into silence, gaining everyone’s attention. 

Amora doesn’t look surprised by his action.

“You listen to me, Amora,” Sam growls. The Enchantress’ dark eyebrows lift in amused interest. “I don’t know what your beef with Thor is, and I don’t _care._ You put a spell on my _boyfriend_ and dragged us _both_ into your shit when he was just trying to do his damn _job_ . Now you _are_ going to tell me how the _fuck_ to fix him or I swear to everything you find holy that by the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna _wish_ you’d never met me.”

In the reflection of the yellow glass, Sam can see the expressions of his teammates behind him. There is a variance of shock, concern, and hints of pride at his actions. But he doesn’t care. The only expression he’s interested in is Amora’s and her face hasn’t so much as twitched.

“Got it?” he asks, voice low and promising a lifetime of hell.

“As charming as that little speech was,” Amora says without a hint of regret, “the spell was specifically catered to your beloved, and, once a spell is cast, I can do nothing to change it.” 

It’s that total disregard for Jamie’s condition that makes Sam’s forehead crinkle with anger. 

“Therefore,” Amora continues, ignoring his expression. She levels him with a look, her green eyes gleaming like emeralds in amusement. “It is not _I_ who can break the spell, Sam Wilson, but _him_.”

“How?” Wanda cuts in and Sam had forgotten that the rest of the Avengers were in the hall with them. “What are the conditions of the spell?”

A smile that would look more at home on a crocodile stretches across Amora’s face. “The particulars of the spell are his business, little witch - as it is _his_ spell to break. Think of it as...a _test_ , of sorts. But I am not without mercy, so I shall give you…a _hint_ on how to help the Winter Soldier.”

The Avengers’ scrutiny fixates on the goddess with all the attentiveness of a class that’s been given a surprise pop quiz.

“Yes?” encourages Thor, the rest of them holding their breath. 

“The spell may be broken,” Amora starts dramatically before pausing, and drawing the silence out like a TV game show host, “only by true love.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

“True love?” Tony asks in disbelief. Strange only blinks in bewilderment.

“Are you _serious?”_ Wanda asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Is this a _joke_ , _”_ Steve responds, his voice light, like he’s on the verge of chuckling. 

“I wasn’t aware we were in a _Disney_ movie,” mutters Natasha from Sam’s side.

“I assure you, I do not joke,” Amora replies, a smirk appearing on her lips. “True love is the only way you will be able to return James Barnes to how he was before.”

Steve growls in frustration, and through the glass’s reflection, Sam can see that his best friend is grinding his teeth.

“Enough of these games, Amora!” Thor requests, a pinch appearing between his eyebrows.

“True love _can’t_ be the answer!” Steve cries. “Jamie loves Sam around the Earth and back! He’s got true love in _spades_ , and would’ve been turned back by now!”

“Not him,” says Natasha in realization.

Her reflection shows her giving Sam a strange look, as though he’s a jigsaw puzzle that she’s having difficulty figuring out. He raises a questioning eyebrow at her. The Enchantress' smile widens, pleased with what’s playing out in front of her eyes like she’s watching a live taping of her favorite soap opera and one of her favorite characters did something she found deliciously entertaining.

“ _Very_ good, spider,” Amora praises, her voice as sweet as honey. “It’s not Barnes _alone_ who must find true love,” she raises a hand, pointing a finger, and rotates her wrist. She twirls her pointed finger in circles in the air. She weaves her arm through the air like she’s going to feed a baby and the only way to do it is to pretend it’s an airplane flying through the sky. Then she points right at Sam, her green nail flashing in the light. “It’s _him_ too.”

Six pairs of eyes turn their attention to Sam.

“Huh?” he asks, brow furrowing in confusion.

“But you just said - ” Wanda starts, eyebrows pinched together and her eyes getting that faraway look she has when she’s focusing hard on something.

“Love is quite the complicated little thing, isn’t it?” Amora asks, cutting her off, the goddess’ own eyes glimmering. “True love, too, has its difficulties. But the purest love - an _unselfish_ love - can thwart any obstacle, no matter what it is.”

“For someone who’s seduced half of Asgard, you sure do have a lot of opinions about love,” Tony sasses in a dry tone. Amora shrugs.

“Everyone wants to be loved,” she replies, her voice smooth as silk. “Even monsters like James Barnes and the Black Widow want to be cared for.”

Natasha goes noticeably still beside him and Sam bristles in agitation, his hackles raised in defense for his friends.

“Stop playing around, Amora,” he fumes harshly and with a glare. “Just give us the damn clue already so we can go home.”

Amora chuckles like Sam’s a damn comedian.

“In the minds of lovers, there are muddled emotions,” she says, studying her nails acutely, looking like a cat that’s playing with a mouse in its claws and enjoys the game of torturing the poor thing. “There is much to glean from the heartache, joy, and doubt in their thoughts - especially in the mind of your beloved. His, in particular, were _delicious_ to read.”

She raises her viridescent eyes to peer up at Sam from beneath her fair eyelashes. He meets her gaze head-on.

“As were yours,” she murmurs, her eyes traveling up and down his form, inspecting him. Then she quirks her lips up into a delighted grin and her eyes grow large. Sam forces himself to stay still. 

“You must imagine my _astonishment_ when I learned the existence of a little gray box!” she says, the tone of her voice traveling upwards in mock excitement. “And of your _intentions_ towards the Soldier - ”

“My intentions towards Jamie are none of your goddamned business,” Sam growls, shutting her down immediately. Amora only holds up a finger to silence him.

“And that is where you’re _wrong_ , Sam Wilson,” she replies, her rosy lips quirking upwards into a smirk. “They _are_ my business. They are the business of _all_ the enemies of the Avengers. The love between the Winter Soldier and the Falcon are legendary in our social circles, and are much talked about - often, in depth, and in length.”

“How often?” Steve chirps up, no doubt thinking of all the tactical reasons why their enemies would be talking about the only couple in their group. Amora smirks.

“Often enough that there is a betting pool on _who_ will be the first to propose,” Amora answers.

There’s a beat where nobody says anything, the shock like something out of a movie where there’s a wide shot and all the characters are taken completely by surprise.

Sam himself has his mouth hanging open in astonishment, and a quick glance behind him shows his friends are also experiencing some level of surprise. Natasha’s eyes are slightly wide, and Wanda’s face is scrunched. Thor’s eyebrows have flown up his head and he’s staring at his fellow Asgardian like she insulted a traditional delicacy or something. Tony’s eyes are big _and_ his mouth has dropped open in a small _O_. Strange is rapidly blinking and Steve’s forehead is creased.

“What,” Tony starts, astonished, “the _fuck_.”

Amora’s attention diverts to the billionaire and the expression on her face says that she thinks Tony gets her.

“Precisely!” she cries, treating it like a big deal. “I myself did not expect Sam to be the one to decide to take the first step so soon!” She turns her eyes back to Sam, addressing him. “Had you proposed as you had planned, _I_ would have had to give a great favor to someone even _I_ cannot stand!”

“Are you saying,” Sam begins, a dark mud of emotions swirling around in his chest that range from rage to absolute incredulity, “that you changed Jamie - my _boyfriend_ , the man I plan to _marry_ \- into his World War II, twenty-five-year-old self, so that you wouldn’t lose _a bet?”_ his voices carries into a loud shout, one that rings out down the hallway of cells.

“What else would you have me do?” she asks, perplexed as she tilts her head to the side. “Let you go on with your plans as intended? Give up a favor to one of the worst enemies of the Avengers? I did Earth’s Mightiest Heroes a service by delaying you.”

“You - ” Sam’s about to curse her out, when a small hand is placed on his bicep. He turns to look and sees Natasha staring at the Enchantress intently like she’s almost got all the pieces to her puzzle figured out. He slowly eases his stance and hands her the reins.

“That _was_ generous of you, Enchantress,” Natasha says, a touch of admiration in her voice. Amora narrows her eyes at her.

“Though I admire your attempt at interrogation, flattery will get you nowhere, little spider,” she says icily. “I only delayed the inevitable. I have no gift of foresight, but even _I_ can see that the Winter Soldier and the Falcon’s union will come about.”

It’s an offhanded comment, but the fact that his love for his boyfriend is so obvious that even their enemies are so sure that Jamie will say yes settles Sam’s initial nerves.

“Therefore,” Amora continues, affecting a lazy air of nonchalance and giving a smile. She raises her eyes again, and a spark of something glitters in them. “Consider this my gift to you both, Sam Wilson, for your upcoming engagement: a test of your love for each other.

“Selfless love,” she recites, “is a _rare_ exquisite gem to find. It is coveted by all, the most sought-after bounty in all the Nine Realms - yet obtained by but precious few. _Let me not to the marriage of two minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove_. _Oh no! It is an_ ever-fixed _mark._ ”

A silence falls, and Amora settles back into her stance, looking like the cat that devoured the poor mouse, leaving them all to absorb what she’s told them.

“What the _fuck_ are you talking ‘bout?” Steve asks, his Brooklyn accent emerging and shattering the spell Amora’s monologuing had put them under.

“Shakespeare,” Wanda supplies, her gaze locked with the Enchantress'. “One of his poems.”

“Sonnet 116,” Strange states plainly from the back of the group, at his spot beside Steve.

The Avengers collectively turn to look at him, each one wearing an expression of mild surprise on their face. Strange’s iridescent eyes glance at each of his teammates, eyebrow raised and the Cloak of Levity floating idly around him.

“What?” he asks, confused. “I read Shakespeare. Is it _that_ surprising?”

“Only because it’s _you_ ,” Tony replies simply and Natasha gives a shrug of agreement.

“ _That_ is your clue, Avengers,” Amora says, drawing their attention back to her. She crosses her arms over her chest and gives them a self-satisfied smirk. “And it’ll be the _only_ clue I give.” 

* * *

Sam doesn’t remember the drive back to the compound.

Shortly after she clammed up, Thor left with Amora to return to Asgard, leaving them all behind again. He offered Sam his most heartfelt regrets that he couldn’t do more, his face like a puppy that knew it did something wrong and wasn’t sure how to fix the mistake. Sam could only nod in acknowledgment, too angry and frustrated with the Enchantress to voice his thoughts or console his friend. In no time at all, he’s back at the compound, alone, because Steve had to stay behind and Sam had convinced the rest of the team that he would be fine on his own.

Sam admits he pushes the button in the elevator leading to his floor harder than strictly necessary, but there are worse ways of letting your rage out - just ask Bruce. He leans back against the glass, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed and pursing his lips in thought.

“She gives me a riddle instead of an answer,” he grumbles to himself and runs a hand over his short hair. _Why did I expect anything less from the villain of the year,_ he wonders.

The elevator doors open on his floor, and Sam makes a direct beeline into the kitchen for a glass of something alcoholic.

Instead of a deserted floor like he thought, Bucky’s sitting on the couch in their living room, making Sam stop short of just reaching the kitchen in the open concept room.

“Hey,” Bucky says brightly, his face breaking out into a pleased grin at the sight of Sam. The iron band around Sam’s heart constricts again, this time making it a little difficult for him to breathe. He has to take a moment to close his eyes.

When he opens them again, he just stares at Bucky, who’s sitting on their fancy-ass couch from one of those upscale New York shops, the sunlight streaming in from the windows at just the right angle, lighting up Bucky’s chocolate brown hair like it’s melting in the sunlight. His lips are still that damnably kissable pout that would taste of cold beer on hot nights and warm honey on lazy mornings, those cool gray eyes still light up with humor, but more so now than they ever had when Sam first met him. He looks so good in that button-down blue shirt and dark pants like he’s ready for a night out instead of just sitting at home binge-watching _Mythbusters_.

Sam stares at Bucky, trying to find some scrap of his boyfriend in the short-haired, clean-shaven Pre-World War II version of the man he loves.

_It’s just not fair_ , he thinks as his heart breaks a little at the sight.

“What’s wrong, Sam?” Bucky asks, his face pinched in concern and worry clear in his voice. Sam shakes his head to clear the vision.

“Nothing,” he gruffs, as he stalks towards the kitchen.

“Are you _sure?”_ Bucky persists, his voice following Sam into the kitchen. Sam opens a cabinet, pulls out one of the shot glasses they keep and puts it onto the counter with a snap. “Your face has gone all...murdery.”

_Murderface_ , Sam thinks, remembering Jamie’s murder strut and the scowl he’d wear just for Hydra. He opens another cabinet and pulls out a bottle of the hard stuff.

“I said I’m _fine_ , Barnes,” he bites out, slamming the bottle down next to the shot glass. “I know my emotions, thanks. There’s nothing wrong,” he mutters, feeling weary. “Just...nothing.” He breaks the seal open on the bottle and pours until it almost reaches the lip of the glass.

Then he knocks it back.

Sam blinks his eyes open, lowers the glass, the liquor burning a path down his throat all the way towards his stomach. “Pah!” he exclaims, feeling much more alert. He turns to pour himself another shot, when a hand places itself directly over the ring of the glass, preventing him from touching the lip.

He raises his eyes and a cool blue gaze meets his. Bucky’s standing right next to him,  staring down. Despite how young Bucky is, the look on his face speaks of a maturity that shouldn’t be found on someone so carefree and young. It makes it all too clear just how often Bucky’s seen someone he loves resort to drinking. His face is filled with a disappointment and deep-rooted pain, but it’s a resigned look; a look that’s _used_ to his own pain.

A sudden memory of Sam and Jamie talking about their lives flashes through his head. They talked about how Steve’s dad had been a mean drunk who hit him and his mom repeatedly until the day he died. Jamie telling Sam how the Sarah and Steve would often spend days with the Barnes', where Jamie’s mom and Steve’s would be in the kitchen, murmuring while he and Steve would lie up at night just talking. He had confided in Sam how many times he’d come home to find Steve bloody and broken in his bedroom, and Sarah Rogers - “the strongest woman I knew apart from my ma” - beaten to a bloody pulp.

It’s like a hard slap to the face, making Sam’s eyes widen with the shock of it, and he doesn’t even need a second shot to wake up. He takes a deep, shuddering breath through his nose, holds it for a second, and lets it out slowly.

“Bucky,” Sam murmurs, screwing the lid back on the bottle, pushing it away for good measure to show he’s not going to indulge in more. “I just had a bad day. That’s all.”

Bucky nods in acknowledgment, his hand still on the glass. “Steve texted me. That dame - the _Enchantress_ \- she’s the one who put the spell on Future Me?”

“Yup,” Sam replies, turning his face away.

“Did she say how to break it?” Bucky asks, curious. Sam closes his eyes and takes another deep breath.

“I really don’t wanna talk about it anymore, Buck,” Sam admits with a sigh, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

There’s a silence, Sam not eager to break it if only to show that he’s done. But Bucky is still standing beside him, not budging an inch from his spot.

“If you need to talk about it,” he starts to offer, and Sam’s beginning to lose patience. “I’m right here - ”

“No, that’s just _it_ Bucky - you’re _not_ here!” Sam shouts, his voice rising in anger.

He drops his hand and looks Bucky in the eye, who is startled by the sudden outburst.

“The person I want to talk to _isn’t here - ”_ he starts, but his throat feels clogged like too much wants to get out at once but can’t. Tears sting his eyes, his breath clicks in his throat. “And, and I don’t think I’m ever gonna be able to bring him back,” he adds, his voice coming back down to a manageable volume, and his shoulders slump - the full force of defeat weighing down on top of him. 

“Yes, you _will_ ,” Bucky affirms, his voice confident and unwavering. He takes his hand off the glass and slowly moves his hands so Sam knows what he’s doing, resting them both on Sam’s shoulders. “We’ll get him - _me_ \- back, Sam.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything but stares down at the dark wood paneled floor underneath his shoes.

“Look, if he were here right now, what would he do?” Bucky asks, his hands squeezing Sam’s shoulders, drawing his attention. Sam meets his eyes, the pale blue brimming with curiosity. “What do you think he would say if he saw you like this?”

Sam doesn’t even need a second to think about it before he huffs out a short laugh. “He’d call me a dumbass and say we’d fix it together,” he replies. Bucky’s look brightens again, his plush mouth dropping open into a surprised smile.

“See?” he asks, practically glowing with pride. “I _told_ you! Who knows me like I do?”

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs in agreement, his companion’s thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his shirtsleeves.

“Actually, Buck,” Sam raises his hands and gently brushes Bucky’s away, his friend confused by the action. “Just before Jamie left, there was something I wanted to ask him.”

Without another word, Sam walks around the kitchen counter, passes the couch of the living room, and heads back down the hall towards their old room. He doesn’t look back to make sure the kid is following him, trusting that Bucky knows that they’re going to continue the conversation elsewhere.

Sam enters the room and goes right to the dark wood nightstand on the side closest to the door. He opens the top drawer, moves the books and papers to the side until he finds the opening to the false bottom and lifts it. Inside, all alone, nestled in the left corner is the small gray box.

He pulls it out, gripping it tightly in his fist for a second, the weight familiar and grounding.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, holding the box loosely with both hands between his knees. Bucky stands at the doorway, momentarily unsure if he’s welcome inside. Sam gives him a nod of permission and Bucky steps into the room. He sits down next to Sam, the bed dipping fractionally with the additional weight, as he leaves a few inches of space between them.

“I don’t know how long you’re gonna stay,” Sam begins quietly, the felt of the box between his fingers rough but soothing against the callouses of his thumbs. “I don’t know how much Steve told you, but with the news we got today...I think it’s gonna take a lot longer than we all expected until we get you back to normal.”

He clears his throat, his gaze locked down at the box in his hands, unable to look at Bucky’s face.

“That being said,” he continues, mouth dry. “There was...there was something I wanted to ask Jamie, but I never got the chance to. So. Here.”

He opens the box, getting a small peek of the brushed silver ring inside, before holding it out to Bucky between his thumb and two first fingers.

“Oh,” Bucky breathes, his fingers brushing against Sam’s as he takes the box away from him. The sensation of his fingers leave Sam feeling emptier, acutely aware of what he’s missing. “Oh Sammy.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, clasping his hands together and bowing his body forward, elbows resting on his knees.

He can’t bear to look over at Bucky. After all, his is not the reaction Sam wants. But Sam’s breath hitches to know that that’s not quite true.

“I had this whole speech planned,” he tries before his windpipe constricts. He clears his throat and tries again. “I had a place in mind, and a speech, and a special meal too. I was gonna take Jamie up to the lake - it’s kind of our little retreat away from everything.”

Sam lifts his head, and instead of the closet in front of him, he’s looking out onto the cool tranquil water from his spot on the front porch of the cabin, and the dock that stretches out from the shore a few feet away from the cabin. There’s a breeze, a coolness to the air with the warm sun beating down. He can hear the soft lapping of water as the tide hits the small rocks that make up the lakefront.

“I was gonna make him his favorite thing for dinner. Spend all day on it if I had to, since he knows I absolutely hate making it - it’s so complicated, I always have to start over,” Sam huffs a short laugh just thinking about it. “Later, once we’d finished, I’d go over to his side of the dinner table, and drop down on one knee.”

A wetness pricks in his eyes that he has to blink away. “I’d take his hand,” he continues, his voice breaking. He sees the glow of the candles on the table reflecting off Jamie’s arm. He can feel the body-warmed metal plates of his boyfriend’s hand in his own, how his fingers would automatically lace through his, but Sam would be firm and make sure they were kept in their proper position: flat and underneath his thumb as he holds Jamie’s hand. “And I’d say my speech. Something like _the first time I saw you, I fucking couldn’t stand the sight of you. As we became friends, that feeling didn’t go away - but it changed into something else. Now I can’t stand to be away from you,_ and I’d ask him the question.”

A silence sits heavily in the room. Sam’s thumb brushes along the knuckle of his other thumb, his hands still clasped together.

“I’m telling you this,” Sam continues, “because I don’t know if you’ll ever get changed back. But I want you to know - I think that it’s _important_ for you to know - that you’ll always have a place here. That no matter what happens in the future, you’re gonna be taken care of, and that you’ll have us - Friday, the Avengers, all of us - to look out for you.” His eyes drift half-closed, and his fantasy disappears, washed away like something left out in the rain. “You’ll always have _me_ to look out for you.”

After another beat, Sam hears Bucky’s throat clear.

“...Yeah. I, uh,” Bucky tries awkwardly. “I really don’t know what I can say to make this better,” he admits, a bit embarrassed by himself.

“Just,” Sam’s hands rub harder against each other, sweat prickling in the palms of his hand and the desire to claw out of his skin comes back full force. He huffs a breath that feels wet in his throat. “Just shut up for a second, okay?”

This time the silence stretches out between them, draping over the room like a blanket. There’s a _wrongness_ to it that doesn’t help alleviate the clawing sensation Sam has, and it isn’t long before he breaks it.

“Bucky?” Sam croaks, grief welling up inside of him.

“Yeah?”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” and Sam can’t get the words out, his throat feels full of water. He clears it, finally raising his eyes to look at Bucky. “C-can you just,” he stutters before stopping. Bucky looks ridiculously young, his face startled, brow scrunched in concern and his entire body language reading like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

“Hold me for a minute,” Sam pleads, his shoulders raised to his earlobes, the wetness coming back to his eyes. “Please.”

“Sure,” Bucky says cautiously. He bends his head, takes one last look at the ring before he shuts the lid of the box closed with a click, and places it gently down on the bed behind them. Bucky shifts closer, his knees touching Sam’s before he opens his arms. A small smile appears on his lips, and it’s full of softness. “Whatever you need, Sam.”

Sam dives at him, surprising Bucky with the slight force of the impact. He ducks his head until it’s beneath Bucky’s chin and his entire body curls up against his friend’s. Bucky wraps his arms around him, his hands brushing along Sam’s spine: one placed high on his shoulder blades and the other low just above his hipbone.

Sam clings tightly, his nails digging into the flesh of Bucky’s arm and side, wrinkling the cloth of the button-down shirt. He lets the smell of Bucky overwhelm him: a combination of fading tobacco, cooked bacon, bland aftershave and mint toothpaste. The combination isn’t something he’s used to; feels _wrong_ , and a completely alien smell to Jamie’s usual smell of fruity hair shit, coffee and honey, and spicy aftershave.

The contrast just serves as another reminder to Sam that Jamie’s _gone._

Sam lets himself cry for the first time in months. He lets the agony claw its way out of his throat, his body wracking with the force of his violent sobs. His throat feels raw and used-up, as tears stream down his face and gather in pools on Bucky’s chest. One of Bucky’s hands - the one on his shoulder blades - moves higher to rest against his head, gently brushing his hair. Sam’s aware that he’s slowly being rocked, Bucky’s other hand rubbing up and down his spine in a soothing motion. He’s aware that Bucky’s low-murmuring voice is saying something, but Sam isn’t sure what the words could be.

They sit like that for a long time: Bucky cradling Sam, as he cries and holds onto him, afraid of what would happen if he lets go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left!


	4. And each day it grows more and more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sam, did it ever occur to you,” Bucky starts after a while, “that my future self and I are the same guy?”  
> “No,” Sam murmurs immediately. “You’re really not.”  
> “Whatever you say, doll,” Bucky replies with a drawl.

Sam gradually starts to wake up. 

He blinks slowly, eyelids heavy and caked with eye crust. His brain feels muzzy. He can just make out dust particles dancing gently in the pale early morning light that’s spilling in from the window behind him. He’s lying on his side; cheek pressed against his pillow, knees bent together and feet tucked at the instep. He moves his hand away from the side of his head, the sheets soft underneath his fingertips. But his movement feels constricted and gross, his limbs are caked in sweat.

Sam drags his gaze down and sees he’s still dressed in the clothes he wore from the other night. He closes his eyes and releases a gusty sigh. _I never even folded the blanket down to wrap up in,_ he thinks. Groaning softly, but still feeling lazy and craving more sleep, Sam lifts himself slightly and turns over onto his other side to face the window.

Sam comes face-to-face with Jamie, curled up beside him.

He’s so peaceful in sleep. One hand is underneath his head, the other facing palm-up in the space between him and Sam. Jamie’s blue eyes are closed, his long dark lashes kissing his cheek, pouty lips slightly parted in a sigh. His broad chest rises and falls as Jamie gently snores, deep in sleep as he lies utterly still on his side. Like Sam, he’s still dressed in his clothes - dark jeans, blue button-down shirt with the sleeves undone - and lying on top of the blanket, only while Sam’s feet have socks on them, Jamie’s are naked and tucked against each other.

Jamie takes a particularly deep breath, and a soft smile curls on Sam’s lips. _He always looks so young when he’s sleeping_ , Sam thinks as he settles back down onto his pillow, facing his boyfriend. The faded smell of Jamie’s aftershave mingles with the sheets, clinging to his body and curling in Sam’s nostrils. It’s peaceful between them for the first time in months, and Sam just wants to let it last, prays that it’ll last a second longer, and lets his eyes drift slowly shut.

 _Since when is Jamie’s hair_ short?

Sam’s eyes snap open.

He stares silently at his bedmate, studying him for a moment. His short soft brown hair fans out over the white pillowcase, the strong jaw, and the cleft in the middle of his chin is smooth, the nails of both hands are cleaned and short, and there’s a healthy flush to his skin. Sam takes in every detail of the man lying in bed next to him - and it’s all _wrong_ on Jamie. _He hasn’t looked like this in_ years, Sam thinks frantically, his heart racing, why _does he look like this?_

 _Because Jamie’s been gone for months,_ a voice whispers in the back of Sam’s head. _This is_ Bucky.

Sam blinks with the realization. It feels like his lungs have stopped working, and his heart constricts painfully - a wretched sensation that Sam’s come to accept as part of his new life. The entire situation comes crashing down on him so hard and with such a force, that it reminds him of SHIELD headquarters crashing all around him and he’s running as fast as he can away from it. Like a building falling on top of him. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, hands on his stomach.

He would start crying if he even thought that there were tears inside of him to shed. Instead, he’s all dried out after last night, his well of tears run completely dry. He watches as the morning light changes, paints the ceiling in a different color like a slow-moving time lapse.

“Sam?” Friday’s familiar Irish voice asks quietly from the ceiling Sam’s been staring at.

He sighs. “Yeah, Friday, what’s up?” he asks just as quietly.

“I apologize for disturbing you, but Captain Rogers has tried calling you repeatedly on your mobile,” she informs him.

Sam groans softly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Crap,” he murmurs. “Any idea what he wants?”

“Captain Rogers has called an Avengers meeting,” replies the AI. “It’s to be in the conference room in twenty minutes.”

Sam lifts his arms up in a stretch, gratified when his back pops loudly down his spine and relief floods his body. “M’kay,” he sighs before heaving himself into a sitting position on the edge of his bed. “Tell Steve I’ll meet him there.”

“Consider it done, Sam,” Friday says as Sam rises to his feet, starting for the door to their... _his_ bedroom.

“Thanks, girl,” he adds as he leaves the room.

 

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later the Avengers - sans Thor, Clint, Vision, and Rhodey - are sitting at the table of the conference room for the first time in months.

Steve at the head, Sam on his left and Tony on the right. Strange and Bruce sit beside Tony, making up the science division. Natasha and Wanda are on Sam’s side of the table, and together they make up the regular-people-thrown-into-nonsense division. Dr. Cho joins the conference via holoscreen projected in the middle of the table. Sam only has to glance at the party’s faces to know that they’re curious about what’s come up and cautious of what the news could be.

“I’m glad you all could make it,” Steve starts, nodding his head at everyone gratefully. “I know the past couple of months haven’t been great, and yesterday wasn’t much better. But Wanda’s told me she has something on the clue Amora gave us - ”

“If you call that a clue,” Strange mutters, a downturn to his lips.

“Wanda?” Steve asks their resident witch.

Wanda rises from her seat, dark hair cascading down her shoulders. She’s wearing one of those cream cotton sweaters, where the sleeves engulf her whole hand. Clasped in her hands is a softcover blue book, the spine cracked and the pages dog-eared. The sight is a painful reminder to Sam of Jamie’s own bad habit of marking his books, and it’s as if someone poured lemon juice directly onto his wound. He lowers his eyes from the sight.

“Amora left us a smattering of clues,” Wanda says right off the bat, flipping through the pages. It’s only when she tilts the book up slightly that Sam sees that it’s a _No Fear Shakespeare_ book, this one on his sonnets. “I recognized the sonnet she was quoting from my class on Shakespeare. It’s Sonnet 116, one of Shakespeare’s most recognized. Here’s how it goes:

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_

_Admit impediments. Love is not love_

_Which alters when it alteration finds,_

_Or bends with the remover to remove._

_O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark_

“Amora started it off right, but she didn’t finish it,” Wanda explains, briefly cutting herself off.

“Why would she do that?” Bruce asks, his eyebrows pinched together. Wanda gives a shrug.

“I assume so that we would have more work to do,” she answers. “But,” she continues, sounding like a professor, with a finger up and a bright gleam in her eyes. “It’s this _second_ part, that I think it is the key to help us to break the spell:

_That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_

_It is the star to every wand'ring bark,_

_Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken._

_Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_

_Within his bending sickle’s compass come:_

_Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_

_But bears it out even to the edge of doom._

_If this be error and upon me proved,_

_I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”_

 “That’s great, Wanda,” Steve begins, and Sam is surprised that his tone’s a little impatient. “But what does it _mean_?”

“The book has a translation, Steve,” Tony explains before anyone else gets the chance. “It’s on the opposite page, I think.” He raises an inquiring eyebrow at Wanda, to which she nods with a smile.

“Yes,” she replies, looking pleased by Tony’s knowledge of the book. She opens the book between her fingers a bit more, deepening one of the creases in its spine. “According to the book, this is a translation of the sonnet:

“ _I hope I may never acknowledge any reason why minds that truly love each other shouldn’t be joined together,”_ Wanda starts, her luminous eyes lowered as she reads the words. _“Love isn’t really love if it changes when it sees the beloved change or if it disappears when the beloved leaves. Oh no, love is a constant and unchanging light that shines on storms without being shaken; it is the star that guides every wandering boat.”_  

Sam sits back further in his seat, letting the words carry him away; feeling himself drift like he’s floating out on the water of the lake at their cabin.

 _“And like a star, its value is beyond measure, though its height can be measured.”_  

He lets his eyes close. He can almost feel the cool water rushing past his hands, submerging them just below his wrists, and he’s letting it pass through his fingers.

_“Love is not under time’s power, though time has the power to destroy rosy lips and cheeks.”_

A kaleidoscope of images appears in Sam’s mind like someone’s using the back of his eyelids as a projection screen to show old family movies. But instead of seeing his parents, his brother or sister, Sam sees Jamie - the memories of them together.

It’s all silent, and the memories appear fleetingly. With them, a myriad of emotions come along that are only a flash of a second long, but Sam has enough time to absorb them all in succession: Jamie’s callous-roughened fingers stroking along the vertebrae of Sam’s spine as they lie in bed together, the warmth of the sun shining in from the window. _Contentment_ . The flash of Jamie’s back teeth as he throws his head back and laughs at him without restraint - _irritation_ . Jamie in the water with him, the sun glittering golden in the water and nearly blinding them - _joy and exuberance_ . Jamie’s cold toes tucked underneath his thighs while they sit on the couch. _Easy and lazy_ . Sam flying through the air and catching Jamie as he falls from a blimp while they were on a mission. Relief. The shared mingling breath between their mouths just before their lips press together reverently. _Happy_.

 _“Love does not alter with the passage of brief hours and weeks, but lasts until Doomsday,”_ Wanda continues, her smooth, low voice weaving through Sam’s memories effortlessly. _“If I’m wrong about this and can be proven wrong, I never wrote, and no man ever loved.”_  

She closes the book softly, the pages whispering.

Sam blinks his eyes open slowly, drowsily. No one speaks for a moment, each of them coming back from the daydream Wanda’s voice had put them all under.

“So Amora’s gift to Jamie and Sam,” Bruce begins, his voice a little above a whisper, “is _literally_ a test of true love?”

“That’s what it’s beginning to look like,” Wanda replies. Tony throws his head back and groans in irritation.

“Did I mention I _hate_ magic?” he whines, arms crossed over his chest defensively.

“That was great work, Wanda,” Natasha acknowledges. Wanda gives a nod as she takes her seat again.

“Bruce, Strange, Helen, _please_ tell me science has something,” Steve pleads, turning fully towards the scientists.

The three share an awkward look: Helen’s eyebrows pinch together, Strange’s eyes lower and Bruce sighs heavily before taking off his glasses.

“Nothing,” Bruce says simply, his molten brown eyes weary.

All the Avengers stare at Bruce, waiting for more. But with each second that passes that he doesn’t continue his thought, everyone slowly realizes that that really is _it._ There’s a silence in the room, as if all the sound seems to have been executed with a swing of a blade, and no one speaks.

“ _Nothing?”_ Steve finally asks, his eyebrow raised and his voice caught in his throat. Tony’s own brow is furrowed in surprise. Sam’s heart feels like it’s stopped beating.

“Nothing,” Bruce confirms, using the hem of his shirt to clean his glasses. A habit he uses when he’s stressing out about something and trying to organize his thoughts.

“We’ve run Jamie’s blood several times,” Helen cuts in, the loose strands of her dark hair curving towards her mouth. “We’ve measured _every_ sample we’ve taken, all from different days - but we’ve only confirmed what we told you months ago: that the serum acts like an antibody, and it’s trying to repair the damage that’s been done.

“But we’ve yet to find _anything_ to show that the serum’s gotten any further in doing its job at repairing the damage!” She lifts a hand to her brow and rubs against her forehead in frustration, concern brimming in her brown eyes. “It’s like the serum has _paused_ , or is being repressed, by… _something_.”

“Neurologically speaking, he hasn’t changed either,” adds Strange. “The only things he remembers are the memories that he and Steve share - ” he looks over at Steve for confirmation on the statement, and their team captain nods. Strange exhales a breath and continues.

“The dissociative amnesia theory is holding up very well, all things considered.” He glances over at Sam. “Besides the obvious, have you noticed anything new with Bucky?”

Sam shakes his head, turning his face away to rest in the palm of his hand. “No.”

Strange gives a resigned nod.

“You said that it’s like the serum’s on pause?” Natasha asks from her seat, speaking up for the first time.

“Right,” Helen confirms. “It’s like something’s stopped it from doing anything - it’s just _there.”_

“What’re you thinking, Nat?” asks Steve, dark blue eyes studying her.

Natasha purses her lips together in thought. She gets up from her seat slowly, the Avengers watching her. She leans over her portion of the table, her fists against the surface, her eyebrows pinched.

She turns her head towards Wanda, who regards her with a raised eyebrow.

“You can tell how he is, right?” Natasha asks, green eyes meeting gray. “Mentally speaking, how’s Bucky doing?”

Wanda narrows her eyes in concentration. There’s a drawn out silence as she evaluates their friend. “His thoughts feel muddled,” she replies, unsure. Similar to when she’s trying to repeat an English colloquialism. Sam’s brow furrows in confusion.

“Muddled?” He asks. “What do you mean?”

“Like...there is like a tug-of-war inside his head,” she tries. “A dark mist surrounds him, and obstructs me from seeing, so I can’t quite tell what it is happening exactly.”

Natasha turns to look at Sam, Steve, and Tony. “Do you remember yesterday when Amora was taunting Sam while we were visiting her?” she asks. “What she said about the minds of lovers?”

Tony’s forehead creases in concentration. “Yeah,” he replies, thoughtfully. “She was saying that she read Jamie’s - ” then tips his head in Sam’s direction “ -  and Sam’s thoughts. Friday can we get a playback from SHIELD’s security cameras?” he asks the AI.

 _“There is much to glean from the heartache, joy, and doubt in their thoughts,”_ Amora’s voice plays through the speakers, momentarily startling everyone. Sam glowers at the sound. _“Especially in the mind of your beloved. His, in particular, were_ delicious _to read...As were yours.”_

“Right,” Steve agrees, brow crinkling.

“And from Sam she found out about the plans to propose?” Natasha starts, like she’s leading them down some road.

 _“You must imagine my_ astonishment _when I learned the existence of a little gray box!”_ Friday helpfully supplies. Sam looks away, the need to punch something arising in him. _“And of your_ intentions _towards the Soldier - ”_  

“Thor _did_ say that Amora’s powers include telepathy,” Strange reminds them.

Natasha raises one perfect copper eyebrow. Green eyes evaluate them. “So what did Amora peek at in Jamie’s thoughts?” she asks the group.

Quiet descends upon them in a flash, no one moves either.

“We _know_ something is preventing Jamie from turning back,” Natasha points out, “his _body_ is _defending_ itself against whatever it is. It matches up with _why_ the serum hasn’t budged an inch, _why_ his body hasn’t changed, and _why_ he’s still an amnesiac. Like Helen said, this dissociative amnesia can be caused by emotional shock or trauma.”

Her green eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms. “So the question is: _what_ was Jamie’s last thought as himself that Amora felt the need to cast this _particular_ spell?”

Tony snaps his fingers in sudden realization. “She’s teaching a lesson!” he exclaims, chocolate brown eyes gold with excitement.

Helen raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” she asks. “There must be a connection problem, Tony, because it sounded like you said the Enchantress was teaching a lesson.”

“I did!” he affirms. “Listen - hear me out - remember yesterday she told us that true love was the way to break the spell - ”

“And none of us believed her,” Strange cuts in. 

“ - right, because we _know_ that Jamie loves Sam more than anything - ” Tony acknowledges, nodding.

“But she said that it wasn’t - ” Natasha starts, before Friday supplies them with the soundbite.

 _“Very good, spider. It’s not Barnes_ alone _who must find true love...It’s him too.”_

“And she pointed at Sam,” Wanda continues, raising her right index finger and turning to point at Sam.

They all turn to stare at him.

“Which means,” Helen leads, her eyebrow raised in confusion. “ _What_ exactly does that mean?”

“That Jamie and Sam _together_ have to break the spell,” Steve murmurs, blue eyes wide.

“Okay,” Sam says, with a huff, slapping his hands on the smooth surface of the table. He pushes himself away, rising to his feet.

"This won't be fixed with a riddle,” he says bitterly, frowning in frustration. “This - _apparently_ \- has to do with my and Jamie's thoughts at _that moment in time_ when the spell was cast. ” Sam shrugs, his hands splayed outward. “And who _knows_ what those were? It was in the _middle of a mission!”_ He turns and walks past the other chairs at the table.

He turns to look at his team, each of them regarding him with varying degrees of concern. 

“We’re taking the word of a _known_ bad guy from _Asgard!”_ Sam points out once he’s at the other end of the table. “ _Why_ are we taking the ramblings of a pathological _liar_ seriously? _How_ could you guys think that that’s an _option?”_

“What other options do we have, Sam?” Steve asks, worry written all over his face. Sam frowns, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he paces.

“She said unselfish love can thwart any obstacle, Sam,” Natasha reminds them, leaning forward in her seat. She shifts her gaze to stare up at him. “That this is a test for you both - to prove yourselves.”

Sam turns away in his pacing, stands there with his back to his team.

“That _does_ coincide with the sonnet quote,” he hears Bruce muse.

“Selfless love,” Wanda agrees. Sam can barely wrap his head around this; it’s all too much.

“ _Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_ ,” Strange recites from the sonnet, stopping Sam in his tracks. _“Within his bending sickle’s compass come: /Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, /But bears it out even to the edge of doom. /If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”_

Sam closes his eyes and prays for patience. He takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” he finally says, exhaling. “Okay.” He turns back around, facing the group of worried friends. “So, _how_ do I prove my selflessness?”

The room goes quiet.

“What,” Sam asks, hands on his hips and frowning pointedly. “ _None_ of you have ideas?”

Nobody says a word, each of them sharing a glance in the uncomfortable quiet. Then it dawns on Sam, and he slowly lowers his hands to hang at his sides.

“Do I have to,” his voice catches in his throat, a feeling that reminds him of falling without his wings. “Do I have to let Jamie _go?”_ He asks, looking around the room, a number of surprised expressions meet his eyes. “To prove I’m selfless, do I have to give up my boyfriend?”

Everyone starts talking at once.

“No, no, Sam - ” Wanda insists vehemently, her forehead pinched.

“Sam, we’re not - ” Steve, Tony and Strange interrupt, panic in their eyes.

“That’s the _last thing_ \- ” Bruce and Helen cut in, concerned.

“Nobody’s asking you to do that, Sam,” Natasha stresses, green eyes brimming with worry.

“Yeah, but that’d be the _selfless thing_ to do, right?” Sam’s eyes narrow and an icy chill runs through his veins. “Give him up? Walk away? Try and forget everything that he’s done for me - everything he  _means_ to _me?”_

He scoffs, shaking his head.

“Well _fuck_ that,” he snarls slamming his hands on the table, the surface shaking slightly from the force. He meets the eyes of every Avenger seated, pressing his index finger harshly into the table to emphasize his point.

“I’m _not_ giving Jamie up, even if he _is_ almost fifteen years younger than me now,” he pulls away, racking his eyes over each one of their faces. “Because having him like this, is better than not having him at _all_. If that means never doing stupid, couple shit with him again - fine. I can live with that. I can live with us just being friends.”

“But I am _done,”_ he stresses tiredly, “trying to play this witch’s games and solve her riddles. I just want to go home. I just want my boyfriend to be there again, but he’s not gonna be and I’ve got to deal with that. And if that makes me selfish for wanting to keep him, then I don’t fucking _care_. ‘Cause I’m gonna keep him any way I can.”

“So I’m sorry guys,” he sighs, feeling worn down, “but unless you come up with better options, I’m just gonna go back to my - _our_ floor.”

He walks out.

* * *

“About what happened earlier - ” Bucky starts, when Sam gets off the elevator onto their floor. Sam lifts an eyebrow to show he’s listening. 

Bucky pauses, wringing his hands together like he’s done something bad. He’s rumbled-looking in last night’s clothes, his normally smoothed and slicked-back hair a bedhead mess, and looks as nervous as deer.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Sam lifts a hand to stop him.

“Man don’t even,” he says. “I was an emotional wreck last night, and I really needed comforting and you were there. You didn’t leave when you could have, and I appreciate it. So thanks.”

Bucky blinks at him. The silence stretches out for a while before he finally says something.

“Don’t mention it,” he murmurs, says the words like it’s a habit.

Sam offers him a small self-depreciating smile. “I’m just sorry I ruined your shirt with my snotty tears,” he replies.

Bucky rolls his eyes, his lips pinched like he wants to laugh but is restraining himself. It’s the response Sam was hoping for, and it fills him with satisfaction to see it.

“ _Please_ ,” Bucky replies, blue eyes meeting Sam’s brown. “We live with a _billionaire,_ we can _afford_ the dry cleaning.”

Sam can’t help but smile.

“Wanna grab lunch?” he asks, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Get out of the compound for a while?”

Bucky had gone into the city initially with Sam once but with Steve many times over the last few months. It was surprising to learn that he’d taken to seeing his old neighborhood seventy-plus years in the future better than Steve ever did. He’d only joked about them finally tearing down an eyesore of a building and that was it. He wanted to see more of the city, and was as natural to New York as a duck in water.

Despite that, Sam’s question doesn’t stop Bucky’s eyes from growing wide like he’s a kid going to Disneyland, and it makes sense: it’d be his first time out in the city without Steve to supervise him.

“Hell yeah,” he says with a bright grin.

They go to this small hole-in-the-wall diner in Harlem. Sam is pleased to discover that their apple crumble pie is amazing.

* * *

It starts to become a thing over the next few weeks. 

Bucky and Sam would go out into the city, walk around, see the sights, and then end the day with a slice of pie at their new favorite dinner in Sam’s old neck of the woods. It’s nice in a way that reminds Sam of his and Jamie’s early days of dating, but different enough that it’s not awkward or painful. 

“Do you still miss me?” Bucky asks him one sunny afternoon over a bowl of tapioca. They’d just come back from going to Liberty Island and were wrapping the day up in a usual way. Sam looks up in surprise.

A blush spreads over Bucky’s face and he ducks his head down. “Future me, I mean,” he specifies when he must see befuddlement on Sam’s face.

Sam looks down at the ketchup splattered sweet potato fries on his plate, the plastic red-checkered cloth on the table obstructed from view by his wide white plate.

 _Every time I breathe_ , he doesn’t say. The words _once in awhile_ are on the tip of his tongue, but then he looks back up at Bucky, and _really_ looks at him _._ There’s a curiousness in his eyes, yeah, but there’s apprehension in them too. A tug-of-war to know the answer, but dreading what it might be. He looks guarded and unsure, and Sam wants more than anything to reassure him.

But Bucky has always respected Sam’s wishes, and Sam knows ultimately, that what he’s looking for is honesty more than assurance. Sam moves to get his hands on his loaded cheeseburger as he puts his heart on the table.

“Every damn day,” Sam replies softly.

There’s a stillness in the air between them, and it’s like the diner goes still around them: the scrape of cutlery dulls, the loud chattering of the other guests becomes nothing but a low murmur and the loud noise from the kitchen mutes completely. Bucky looks up at him from his tapioca. His long dark eyelashes sweep across his cheeks as he opens his eyes, their cool blue warm and assessing. He pokes his tongue out to wet his lips, and the sight of it momentarily has Sam transfixed. He tracks the movement with his eyes, not caring that he’s staring. He breaks himself from the trance and looks back up into Bucky’s eyes.

They’re... _hopeful_.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, his lips beginning to form Sam’s name, but he is cut-off when someone else says it instead.

“Sam!” a woman’s voice calls out from behind Bucky.

Sam whips his head up, and just like that the moment is gone and the noise rushes at them like a train; everything resets itself and returns to normal again as a woman approaches them from the entrance.

It’s one of Sam’s friends from high school, Dinah Robertson. They haven’t seen each other since their high school reunion, where he’d taken Jamie as his date and he and Dinah had argued playfully over _Black Mirror._ She looks good, her thick black hair tied together behind her head and running down her back. Her dark skin glows golden in the afternoon and her eyes light up when she sees Bucky turn to look at her.

It’s at that exact moment that Sam’s eyes widen in realization and his heart beats frantically in his chest.

“Di - ” he starts, but doesn’t get the chance to finish. 

“Dinah! How are you?” Bucky interrupts, his eyes wide in surprise.

Sam looks over at his lunch mate, his own eyes wide and his body gone stock-still.

“Jamie!” she grins, coming closer. Bucky - Jamie? - smiles up beatifically at her as she stops at their table.

But it looks all wrong - it _is_ wrong, Sam realizes immediately. Bucky’s face is slightly somber, a softened hardness in the corners of his eyes. He has his body turned slightly so he’d have view of both the doors to the diner, and his left hand has lowered onto his seat. Hiding it from sight, Sam realizes. Like he _knows_ two normal-looking hands aren’t normally Jamie. This is just an act.

“Barnes, you look _good!”_ she says in surprise, standing over them, her eyes wide in amazement. “Your hair’s nice slicked back, and - I don’t know what skincare routine you’ve got going, but keep it up! It’s doing you _wonders!”_

“Thanks,” Bucky says, smiling like he’s embarrassed, lowering his voice slightly. Sam can only blink at the scene playing out in front of him. “Just something I found.”

“You’ll have to send some to me,” Dinah replies. Bucky scoffs in disbelief.

 _“ Please_ , _”_ he starts, the corners of his lips going up playfully and surprising Sam. “You know black don’t crack.”

Then Dinah narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. Sam’s heart starts thundering in his throat, sweat breaking out on his brow. Nervousness fluttering in his chest.

But then Dinah startles him by throwing her head back and laughing. “ _God_ , you’re _such_ an idiot!” she says loudly, mirth gleaming in her eyes. “As sweet a compliment as that was, _don’t_ speak modern slang again, grandpa - it’s just _weird._ ”

“Understood,” Bucky gives a small smile, pleased with himself. Sam tries to calm the hell back down.

“You all caught up on this season of _Black Mirror_ ?” she asks. Sam’s about to interrupt when Bucky leans his head back, the crown of his head almost touching the wall they’re seated against, and groans like he’s on the verge of coming. The sight of which sends a flush to Sam’s face and arousal skyrocket up his body. It makes him _painfully_ aware how long it’s been since he’s had sex. He crosses his legs under the table.

“ _San Junipero_ is _gorgeous_ ,” Bucky stresses, drawing Sam’s attention back to the situation. His blue eyes are bright in amazement.

“And the first three?” Dinah asks, raising an eyebrow. Bucky gives a careless shrug.

“Eh, I’ll just watch them later,” he says easily, waving the comment away like it’s no big deal...which, Sam realizes, is _exactly_ what Jamie would do.

She huffs a loud sigh, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “You _can’t_ just go around _skipping_ episodes, Barnes!” she says, like Jamie is the bane of her existence, this argument a familiar one with these two. “That’s just watching out of _order!”_

Bucky only lifts an eyebrow. “If the episodes are individual stories that don’t correlate to each other, who cares?” he asks, smirking.

She gives him a sly smile. “Touché,” she allows, pointing at him. She shakes her head in amusement, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re too much for me, Barnes. I don’t know _how_ Sam puts up with you.”

“Oh, Birdy’s got his fair share of burden,” Bucky says. Then he stretches his right hand across the table, reaching for Sam’s and clasps it in his. The usage of his nickname sends a pinprick of pain directly into Sam’s chest, and tears something up inside of him. “He’s just used to it is all.”

“Right,” Dinah snorts. Then she looks down at her watch and her eyebrows raise when she sees the time. “Well, I gotta go,” she says quickly. “But call me sometime, Sam, and we’ll all three have dinner, okay?”

Bucky squeezes Sam’s hand pointedly, urging him to respond. “Yeah, sounds good,” Sam confirms with a croak.

Dinah gives them a knowing smirk and starts making her way towards the exit. “Enjoy your lunch,” she calls sweetly over her shoulder just before she walks out the door.

Sam slowly turns his head to face his companion.

“J - ” he starts, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

“Sorry about that,” Bucky says quickly, and the spell’s broken. His expression clears, he turns back to completely face the table and his voice returns to its normal pitch. He draws his hand away from Sam’s like it’s too hot to touch. His eyes lock back down onto his tapioca, and his normal looking left hand is back on the table.

Reality snaps back into place and the harshness of it is like a hard slap to Sam’s face.

“But I didn’t want her to ask any questions,” Bucky continues. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

 _Too late for that,_ Sam thinks. “How do you even know about her?” he asks, his voice confused and curious. Bucky’s eyes look back up at him.

“Don’t freak out,” he starts, eyebrows pinching together. Sam stays still, keeps his expression open but serious. Bucky glances away very quickly before saying in a rush, “I’ve asked Friday to show me old recordings of you and Jamie together.”

Sam blinks, the answer the last one he’d been expecting.

“And I’ve been watching them. Religiously,” Bucky continues, shifting slightly in his seat. “Like you with the _Housewives_ religiously. I’ve always been good at mimicry so...it wasn’t hard to pretend.” He stabs at his tapioca in the forced quiet.

Sam sits back and absorbs this information, letting the noise of the diner wash over them.

“But not when you guys had sex!” Bucky is quick to reassure, looking very panicked, and the slow return of Sam’s relaxed easiness is gone. He hunches forward, suddenly feels himself going hot in embarrassment and arousal. “I always turn it off when you guys start to get hot and heavy, and I wouldn’t - ” 

“And _Black Mirror_?” Sam interrupts to ask, almost shouting the question, because the idea of Bucky watching him with Jamie is the _very_ _last conversation Sam wants to have right now_. 

Bucky winces like he knows what Sam’s thinking. “I binged it,” he admits.

Sam shakes his head lightly, a smile on his face. “Well, thanks for stepping in like that,” he allows. “But what if she’d known?” Bucky only shrugs, unconcerned, the tension from before bleeding out of his shoulders.

“Fooled you, didn’t I?” he asks softly, with a dimmed down version of his usual confidence that comes naturally to him. Sam has to agree with him, he _had_ been fooled. He picks up his discarded burger and takes a few bites, they let the sounds of the diner be the only noise for a while.

“Sam, did it ever occur to you,” Bucky starts after a while, fiddling with his spoon, the five or so bites of tapioca left forgotten in front of him, “that my future self and I are the same guy?”

“No,” Sam murmurs immediately, his fingers tightening on the bun of his cheeseburger. “You’re really not.” He takes a bite of his food and Bucky snorts loudly.

“Whatever you say, doll,” Bucky replies with a drawl as he eats another spoonful of his tapioca, sending a shiver running down Sam’s spine.

* * *

“About that team meeting - ” Natasha starts once they’re done with the training module. 

Sam inwardly groans, as he snaps his wings closed. “Natasha, you don’t even need to apologize. It got intense for all of us.”

“We have not come to apologize,” Wanda corrects, appearing out of the blue beside him and scaring the bejeezus out of Sam.

He only lifts an eyebrow, not letting them see how he got freaked out (but Natasha’s smirk just shows that she saw him and isn’t fooled). “ _We?”_ he repeats.

“Yup,” Natasha confirms, popping the _p._ She slinks up beside him, draping a friendly arm over his shoulders. “It’s come to our attention that you and Barnes are meant to be together no matter what the age difference is.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” Sam asks, truly confused.

“Sam,” Wanda says, in a gentle tone of voice that she uses just before correcting Steve on a pop culture reference. “Bucky adores you. You don’t need to read minds to see that he likes you.”

“Just you watch,” Natasha snarks, with a shit-eating smirk as she pokes him in the ribs, making him squirm. “You’ll be doing coupley shit in no time.”

“You guys need to stop hanging out,” Sam informs them and they only grin at him.

* * *

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” Bucky asks out of the blue, one rainy morning. 

Sam was laying out on the couch of their floor, absorbed in a book, while Bucky had gone out to hang out with his other Science Bros. He had come back a few minutes ago.

“Maybe next week?” he continues. “Friday? Out in the city?” 

Sam doesn’t even look up from the book he’s reading. “Yeah, sure, Buck,” he replies, eager to see what’ll gonna happen next in the story. “Whenever.”

“Great!” Bucky says, his voice a touch over-enthusiastic in Sam’s opinion.

He snorts. _Bucky sure does_ love _his sarcasm,_ he thinks.

“I’ll put it on the calendar,” Bucky declares, having become addicted to their shared Google calendar, and saunters out of their living room.

And that’s the last Sam hears of it.

* * *

 “You should know something,” Tony tells him randomly one Friday morning, cutting Sam off on his route towards the communal kitchen at the compound. 

Sam raises an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

Tony opens his mouth to speak, but then Rhodey rushes at them unexpectedly from the kitchen, practically running into Tony.

“He can’t tell you,” Rhodey interrupts quickly slaps a hand over his best friend’s mouth and grips Tony tight in a half hug with his other hand. He looks pointedly at Tony. “He _promised_ he wouldn’t say, _right_ Tones?”

Tony gives a swift nod, after which Rhodey slowly draws his hand away. Tony shuffles uncomfortably. “I _did_ promise I wouldn’t, Rhodey-bear,” he says. Then his chocolate brown eyes look up at his friend as pathetically as possible. Rhodey scoffs and gives him an eye roll.

“Just so long as you _remember_ that, Stark,” Rhodey says, patting his shoulder and starting down the hallway where Sam had just come from. Sam furrows his brow in confusion.

“Okay, anyone ever told you that you guys are - ” Sam starts, but is cut off by Tony’s rushed _meetmedownatmylabinthirty_ before the man sprints off towards the direction of his workshop, leaving Sam alone in the empty hallway. Sam blinks in momentary confusion and shakes his head.

“Well that wasn’t mysterious at _all,”_ he mutters to himself as he continues to the kitchen.

Thirty minutes later he meets Stark down in his lab. 

The bright, sleek room practically glows with sunlight streaming in from the windows that make up one whole wall opposite from the door, with a glass and steel desk prominently set in the center. Tony is sitting at said desk in his black swivel chair and turns dramatically when Sam enters. There are five or so holoscreens showing different vintage cars floating behind him, making a cool blue color gleam shine on Tony like a spotlight.

“Alright,” Sam starts, cereal in hand as he steps into the brightly lit room. “What’s _so_ important that couldn’t you tell me upstairs?”

“Friday engage Secret Clubhouse,” Tony says right off the bat.

“Engaging, Boss,” the AI responds immediately.

Dark shutters slide effortlessly over the wall of windows, eliminating the natural sunlight. It leaves the once brightly lit lab pitch-black, causing the holoscreens to become the only source of light in the room. Sam looks around, startled by the abrupt change. He opens his mouth to ask a question, but Tony only raises a hand to stop him.

“Sleep mode, Friday,” he says and it’s as though someone’s left the room; the ever-present AI disappears, leaving Sam and Tony alone in the dark room together.

“What’s with the cloak and dagger shit?” Sam asks, a little worried. “Is this about what you were gonna tell me upstairs?”

Tony rises to his feet and walks over to Sam. Once he’s right in front of him, Tony rests both his hands on Sam’s shoulders and stares him squarely in the eye. Sam raises an eyebrow, now more than a little concerned by his friend’s actions.

“Sam,” Tony says softly, his chocolate brown eyes earnest. “It wouldn’t be fair, to either of you, not to say _something._ But,” he huffs a frustrated breath. “As a Science Bro, I _promised_ I wouldn’t say anything. So I’m not gonna. Just. Don’t freak out okay?” he asks. “When you watch them, don’t freak out.”

 _Watch what,_ Sam wants to ask, but Tony’s eyes widen and it’s practically a plea not to mention anything. Instead, Sam nods his head in understanding and that seems to be enough for Tony because he lowers his eyes and gives Sam’s shoulder a soft pat before walking to the door of his lab.

“All you have to do is say _Play_ ,” he instructs mysteriously, his back turned to Sam. Then he opens the door to his lab and walks out, leaving Sam alone again.

Sam stands in the middle of the pitch-black room. The desk with the blue glow of the holoscreens feels too far away in the dark, barely lighting a path out of the darkness. He shakes his head and heaves a heavy sigh before turning around to walk towards the genius’ workspace.

“Man,” he groans, placing his cereal bowl on the desk beside him as he drops himself onto the swivel chair. “I am getting _tired_ of play - ”

Suddenly the holoscreens in front of him change from showing various vintage roadsters to images of Bucky.

Sam blinks at the blue eyes of Bucky on the screen in front of him. He glances around at the other stills and realizes that they’re all from different days: there’s one where Bucky is wearing a white tee with short sleeves, another one where he’s in a hospital gown. Sam only has to look at the timestamps on the bottom left corner to see that they’re all at different times; ranging from evening to morning, to the middle of the afternoon.

“Play,” he whispers and the video in front of him starts. 

Video Bucky is in the hospital, and Sam startles when he realizes that it’s the day that Jamie had been changed back to Bucky.

“March 2nd,” Bucky’s voice echoes around the empty workshop. A chill runs down Sam’s spine. Video Bucky huffs a breath and runs a hand through his unruly dark hair.

“Stark - not _Howard_ Stark,” he starts, “who’s _apparently_ been dead since the late nineties, but his _son, and how fucking freaky is that?_ \- said that making these video diaries might be good for my recovery, whatever the hell that means.”

Bucky releases a long breath, the sound like a gust of wind blowing through the room.

“This is so freaky,” he admits, giving the camera a crooked smile. Sam can see how scared shitless Bucky really is in the corner of his mouth. “So much has happened, and I don’t remember any of it. Stevie’s all but turned into Paul Bunyan overnight, we won the war, and apparently it’s seventy _years_ in the future!” Bucky shakes his head and laughs. “And, according to Steve, and this scary lady Natasha,” Bucky whispers so quietly that Sam has to lean forward a little to hear better, “I have a _boyfriend._ Me! I can’t believe it!”

He aims such a bright grin at the camera, then lets out such a joyful little laugh. It makes Sam give a small smile of his own in return. “I can’t wait to meet him,” Bucky admits sheepishly.

Then another video automatically plays, and Sam can tell it’s the next day.

“ _Sam_ ,” Bucky says with a lovesick sigh, and it makes Sam crack up laughing. “My boyfriend’s name is _Sam!”_

Bucky’s eyes flutter shut and his smile is small but earnest. “He’s so _gorgeous._ He’s, God I don’t even know how to explain Sam.” He gives a gusty exhale. “I only just _met_ the guy an hour and a half ago, but I can already see why future me is in love with him. If I’m honest, it’d be impossible _not_ to fall in love with Sam Wilson.”

He looks uncomfortable for a minute and Sam frowns in concern.

“I think,” Bucky starts before he groans. “I think I hurt him. With my flirting just now. I think he still sees a lot of.... _Jamie_ \- what the _hell_ man why would you go with _that_ name, don’t you remember that jerk Jamie Monahan from up the street? - in me.

“I think we’re different enough that it doesn’t matter, but it seems to matter a _lot_ to Sam.” He stares determinedly at the camera, his mouth set in a line. “I’m gonna apologize when I see him, simple as that. Now, they’re gonna release me any minute so I gotta go,” and then another video plays.

Sam watches that one, and the next one, and the one after that -  his bowl of cereal forgotten at his elbow and growing soggy.

It’s like watching those vlogger videos on YouTube that Jamie was addicted to, then being trapped in a spiraling rabbit hole - there’s so much content and he can’t help but watch.

In one video, Sam learns about conversations Bucky has had with Natasha, where he had apparently talked to her about the past a little. Bucky had explained that he had learned about his future-self’s prosthetic. This was only after Bucky had said that he was having nightmares he didn’t understand, something Sam hadn’t known about at all.

“They’re about people I don’t remember anything about,” Bucky mutters, eyes bloodshot red and frightened like a trapped animal. “But for some reason, I _know_ the sound they make when they die.”

It sends a sharp pain through Sam’s core, the only thing he can think over and over is _I should have seen this, I should have done something._ Thankfully, Natasha had cut out a lot of the more traumatic parts in her retelling, so Bucky doesn’t know _everything,_ but enough to know he had done bad shit.

There are videos where Bucky retells the ridiculous shenanigans the Science Bros get up to that leave Sam gasping for air. There’s a video that has Bucky sadly confessing that Steve has changed too much in such a short time and he doesn’t know what to do about it. That video leaves Sam’s heart aching in agony and him sniffling.

“This is exactly what I wanted to avoid happening to Stevie when I joined up to fight,” Bucky says, heartache written all over his face. “I just wanted to keep him safe and untouched.”

Another video has Bucky talking about him asking Friday to look at videos on file of Sam and Jamie together. In a lot of the videos afterwards, Bucky gives a complete run-down of what he’s just seen in their video files; to the point where he’s dissecting every little thing obsessively and revealing intimate details Friday has told him.

“They’re _sweet_ is the thing,” Bucky explains to the camera. “I get why Sam likes Jamie, but it’s... _frustrating_.”

It’s amusing hearing Bucky gush about Sam - “He’s got these eyes that are bright like the sun, and his hair, _wow_ , and his _smile_ ,” before giving a longing groan and smiling like a doofus. It leaves Sam feeling like he’s in high school all over again, having just heard someone’s got a crush on him - a total ego-booster. That feeling is all but gone when Bucky idly wonders what Sam’s _O-_ face looks like, or what it’d be like to have Sam gasping and wanting underneath him. After watching that, Sam is left shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Soon the gushing turns to miserable pining and then it stops being funny entirely. Bucky spends the next couple of videos talking about the hopelessness of his being attracted to Sam, his guilt for wanting someone he knows isn’t his.

A few more videos in, Sam listens as Bucky talks about helping Wanda do her homework, how tutoring her on her science reminds him of helping his little sister, Becca. The entire video leaves Sam smiling in pride at his nerdy boyfriend.

It’s that thought that makes him jar in surprise and blink. _Where did_ that _come from?_ He wonders.

At some point during the videos, Bucky stops talking to the camera like it’s his unseen audience and starts addressing it like it’s Jamie. The agony of which feels similar to a knife twisting in Sam’s side.

Of course it’s just as he’s feeling this way that Sam gets to another video.

Bucky is glowering at the camera, his normally warm blue eyes cold and glaring accusatorily, his mouth set in a hard line. It’s dark in the room Bucky’s in, but there’s enough light from the camera that Sam’s just able to tell that this isn’t the guest room where Bucky normally records from.

 _Still_ , Sam thinks, eyeing the background, _it looks_ familiar...

“August 5th. Hey _asshole,”_ Bucky grits out. His lips are pulled back into a snarl, but his voice is a harsh whisper, like he doesn’t want to be heard. “Guess what I saw today.”

He shuffles forward on his crossed legs, and Sam realizes that Bucky’s sitting on the foot of a bed, with a weird shaped mass lying behind him. _And that blanket,_ he thinks absently, _I’ve_ seen _it before._ The thought takes a minute too long trying to connect to something in his brain, but when he realizes where it is, he takes a big gulp of air in surprise.

 _That’s_ our _room._

And before he even sees it, Sam knows what night this is supposed to be. From the button-down shirt Bucky’s wearing, to the snot and tear stains on Bucky’s shoulder - this was the night they found Amora; the night Sam had his emotional breakdown. He digs his fingernails into the skin of his palms to keep himself from losing it again.

Bucky raises his hand into the frame, with the small gray box opened and balanced between the fingers of his right hand. Sam’s ring shines accusingly in the light of the camera, nearly blinding him.

“Look familiar?” Bucky growls. The question makes Sam flinch back, like a sharp slap to the face, and he feels a wave of guilt; like _he’s_ the one Bucky is being harsh to.

“What the _fuck_ is _wrong_ with you?” Bucky fumes, snapping the box closed with a loud clap. He quickly glances back over his shoulder to make sure Video Sam hasn’t woken up. But when he turns his face back to the camera, he’s glowering like a feral cat.

 _Murderface,_ Sam thinks absently, the thought coming in and rushing out like a tide.

“ _This_ is what fucking made you panic?” Bucky hisses with a scoff, gesturing with one hand at the box. “ _This_ is why you got fucking _terrified?”_ He glares harder at the camera, his eyes flashing in anger. “Don’t you realize how _lucky_ you are that Sam’s with _you?_ How I’d _kill_ just to have him _look_ at me like the way he looks at - _”_

He stares at the camera, his scowling expression suddenly wiped clean off his face. Sam watches in fascination, eyebrow raised.

Bucky blinks slowly, like he’s coming out of a trance, and his shoulders slump heavily. He lowers his gaze down to the box in his hands. He lifts the lid so slowly that it creaks and stares at the ring inside for five straight minutes. Sam _knows_ how long it is because he’s simultaneously watching the seconds tick by in the timestamp on the corner of the screen and Bucky’s face in case he moves a muscle.

Sam furrows his brow in concentration, peering harder at the high-res screen in front of him. Bucky’s eyes look so _sad_ , so much so that it’s achingly familiar. It’s almost like looking at -

Sam’s breath catches in his throat and his eyes widen; the sensation like a bucket of cold water being dumped all over him runs through him.

_Jamie._

But just as soon as the expression was there, it was gone. Bucky’s eyebrows pinch together in determination and the lid to the box snaps shut along with his eyes. He puts the box down beside him, and it’s like another person takes over from here: Jamie’s slouch leaves, and he looks back into the camera, hardened eyes gone, a light back in them and Sam wants to cry, his heart breaking at the sight.

“ _I_ should take him,” Bucky states, as though he’s already thought about it. “God knows I’d treat him a helluva lot better than you do.”

The video cuts out and Sam hunches forward, elbows resting on the desk’s cool surface as he puts his face in his hands. He takes a deep shaky breath that feels wet in his chest; like he’s trying to breathe underwater. He squeezes his eyes shut, a few tears escape despite him.

“He’s still in love with you, you asshole,” Video Bucky’s voice suddenly says.

Sam goes still, so still he swears he could hear a butterfly’s heartbeat on the other side of the world. He looks up, knuckles scraping across his wet cheeks as he finds himself staring at Bucky’s face.

Bucky’s mouth is set in a stubborn pout, his arms crossed, shoulders raised and eyes glaring at the camera. This time, he’s back in the guest room.

Sam recognizes from the clothes Bucky’s wearing that this was filmed the day after they saw Dinah in Harlem.

“Normally I’d respect someone’s decisions like this, but this is just _ridiculous,”_ he says. “It’s not gonna _matter_ what I do, because he’s always gonna want _you.”_

“I don’t get _why_ you insist on hiding,” Bucky admits, raising a hand to scratch at his forehead with his thumbnail. It’s such a Jamie thing to do that Sam’s momentarily hypnotized by the movement. Bucky moves his head slightly, and his ice blue eyes are staring right into Sam’s soul: looking at every imperfection, every good and bad thought he’s ever had, at every awful thing he’s done, and _liking_ him despite what he sees.

“So Sam wants to _propose_ to you.” Bucky gives a careless shrug. “That’s scary shit, I get it, considering we’d say _yes_ .” The admission sends Sam’s heart fluttering like a bird in his chest. “Spending the rest of your _life_ with someone can be really fucking scary, especially because it could go horribly wrong any which way - just look at Stevie’s parents. But from what I understand, you and the Avengers tackle scary shit every _day_.”

He leans forward, giving the camera a sly smirk, and Sam can’t help but return it.

“But the way _I_ figure it,” he continues, “ _not_ taking this leap - not saying _yes_ to _Sam_ \- is just plain fuckin’ stupid, Barnes. Because, being an Avenger, _anything_ can go wrong. One day you’ll be here, and the next day...you’ll be magicked into your past self.”

Bucky laughs softly, and Sam chuckles wetly through his tears. Bucky raises his eyes back to the camera, and they look so soft; as blue as a bright sunny sky.

“What I’m sayin’ here, Jamie,” Bucky comforted, a corner of his lips turned up, “is that any day could be yours - or _Sammy’s_ \- last. So why not make the most of it? Marry the man, Barnes. Adopt lots of kids - or dogs, or birdies, or kitties - get so many of ‘em that your house in Flatbush practically _bursts_ . Be _happy_ for once in your fuckin’ future life. Cuz your dumb ass isn’t getting any younger.”

He gives the camera a wink and the screen cuts to black.

* * *

When Sam gets up to their floor, he makes an immediate beeline to the guest room down the hall.

The door is open, and before Sam can even knock, the sight of Bucky in a suit stops him dead in the doorway. Bucky’s dark hair is in its customary slicked back state. He’s dressed sharply in a dark suit that gleams indigo when the light hits it just right, hugging Bucky’s sharp lines like he was born to wear it. Underneath the jacket is a white button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone at his throat, and a long black tie held in his hand.

The sight manages to steal Sam’s breath and he can only stare from his spot.

Bucky looks up from admiring himself in the mirror and catches sight of Sam in the reflection of the glass. He turns - a wide, happy smile appearing on his lips.

“Hey - ” he starts, before Sam cuts him off.

“Did you mean what you said in the videos?” he asks. Bucky’s eyes widen, and he turns his gaze away from Sam.

“I’m gonna kill Stark,” he mutters darkly. His fists clench at his sides, and Sam can practically _see_ Jamie hidden in there. But for just a second more, he wants to keep seeing Bucky.

“Did you mean it?” Sam asks again, stepping directly in front of Bucky.

Bucky’s shining azure gaze lock onto Sam’s, and he can see that the guy’s breath is caught in his chest. “Which part, exactly?” he asks, his throat audibly clicking.

Sam’s not sure what he’s asking anymore. Instead of answering, he lowers his eyes and reaches for Bucky’s right hand. He immediately drops the expensive tie he had been holding onto the floor, ready to do anything to accommodate Sam. Their fingers together, boldly tracks a thumb across his knuckles. Bucky takes a quick breath, but otherwise doesn’t move.

“I don’t know,” Sam answers quietly, honestly, hitching one shoulder up a little. “All of it, I guess.”

“I meant every word,” Bucky whispers softly, giving Sam’s hand a squeeze. For the first time since this started, the iron band around Sam’s heart lets go.

Sam looks up into his eyes, and stares deeply. “This is goodbye, isn’t it?”

Bucky smiles sadly. “Yeah,” he answers. “I thought I had more time for dinner at least, but. It’s time I get going.”

“Can I ask why?” Sam croaks, his eyes burning with the urgent need to cry.

“You don’t cheat on your boyfriends,” Bucky replies simply, and it makes Sam snort wetly. The soft smile on Bucky’s lips fades, as he reaches up to cradle  Sam’s cheek in the palm of his hand, thumb brushing against Sam’s mouth. Sam leans his head further into the touch.

“I love you, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, eyes glittering like precious sapphires, making Sam’s heart ache in the sweetest way possible. “But you’re in love with someone else, and I gotta let you be with him. Plain as that.”

The admission makes a tear roll down Sam’s cheek. Bucky is quick to brush it away, his fingertips still tenderly stroking along the skin there.  Sam wishes it were different is the thing.

As much as he loves Jamie, he has grown to love Bucky as well. He wishes there was a way for Jamie and Bucky to fuse together, allowing both identities to learn from the other. Maybe, hopefully, this experience had taught both of them something. But, ultimately, Sam knows that he wouldn’t change either of them for the world.

He doesn’t have the words to express any of this. No way to fully explain what this whole thing has meant to him or how much he is going to miss Bucky. So, instead Sam leans his head forward and Bucky meets him halfway. Both of them close the small distance between them to rest their foreheads together. For just a moment, they’re in their own bubble, breathing the same air, away from the rest of the world in companionable quiet. They close their eyes and just let the stillness engulf them, a moment of peace.

“I’m gonna miss you, Buck,” Sam admits into the space between them.

“I’m gonna miss you too, Sammy,” Bucky responds, his voice a low murmur.

“Thanks for being my friend,” Sam whispers, and he can practically hear the other man’s joy at his words.

“Thanks for _letting_ me,” he whispers back, and Sam beams back at him.

They stand there for a moment, waiting for something, _anything_ to happen.

“What do we do now?” Bucky asks after a while. Sam frowns.

“I honestly don’t know,” he replies, uncertain. “I kinda thought we’d do _this_ and that would be it. Do you feel any different?”

“No.”

“Maybe you have to say something?” Sam wonders, his brow furrowing.

“I got it,” Bucky tries for confidence but misses by a few inches, he lets go of Sam’s hand. Now he’s able to cup Sam’s face between both his warm hands, tilting it down a bit. Bucky presses a firm kiss on Sam’s forehead, smoothing the worry lines away. Sam automatically places both his hands on Bucky’s hips and lets out a contented, gentle sound.

“Bye Sam,” Bucky whispers and that’s it, Sam _knows_ somewhere deep down in his core that Amora’s spell is finally broken.

Sam’s fingers can feel the muscles of Bucky’s body shifting, growing, _changing_ minutely _-_ and despite Sam’s closed eyes, there’s a bright white light, as though someone’s shining a flashlight directly into his face. Suddenly Bucky’s warm hand is gone, leaving behind a familiar cool sensation against Sam’s cheek that startles him into taking a sharp breath.

“Frosty?” he asks, _begs,_ voice trembling.

The body underneath his fingers goes still, then moves slightly away from him until Sam grips his boyfriend’s hips tight enough to keep him from escaping again. Sam opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees are his boyfriend’s plush lips and his stubbled jaw.

He leans back, craning his head up slightly to drink in the sight. The slicked back hair is gone, Jamie’s soft tousled chin-length hair back again, and the _eyes -_ Sam’s had dreams about those eyes. Pale as fog, cool and blue as ice, old around the corners, but young at the same time, and as familiar to him as Sam’s name.

“ _Frosty_ ,” Sam breathes in relief, smiling, as his heart soars. He tightens his hold on his boyfriend’s hips, unable to believe that this is _real_ but definitely not taking any chances. “You’re _back.”_

“Birdy, I’m so sorry,” Jamie apologizes, his voice gravelly and absolutely gutted. Hearing his boyfriend’s voice again is like the sound of angels singing, but the desperation in his words is like a sucker punch to the gut that makes Sam want to cry again.

“Baby, you don’t have anything to fucking apologize for,” he immediately assures, his thumbs rubbing circles into the fabric of Jamie’s pants.

“Yes I do,” Jamie insists and pulls his face further away from Sam’s, yet leaves his hands where they are: cradling Sam’s face, like he’s a precious, fragile thing. His blue eyes flick all over Sam’s face, committing every detail to memory, like he might forget it all, before staring intensely into Sam’s eyes. “I did this to myself.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, “what’re you talking about?” and Jamie trails his fingertips over the corner of Sam’s mouth.

Jamie heaves a heavy breath, lowers his head, the ends of his hair moving with the motion. “It wasn’t you who was bein’ selfish,” he starts, raising his gaze to look back up at Sam. “It was me.”

Sam stares up at him, wanting to ask every question he can think of - but the inner counselor in him says _let him talk,_ and he does.

“That day we went out to stop the Sisterhood, I found the ring,” Jamie confesses with a grimace. Sam tenses underneath his hands, breathing in a gust of air to say something, but Jamie’s fingers keeps swiping against Sam’s face over and over again, to still him. Eventually, the motion settles Sam’s nerves and he’s ready to listen again.

“It fucking freaked me _out_ , Sam,” Jamie admits with a forced laugh. It takes effort for Sam’s face to remain still instead of giving in to his impulse to frown, but he does it anyway. “I was _scared_ . I kept asking myself _why me, why would Sam - this amazing,_ wonderful _human being - want_ me _; I’m nothin’ but a fucking_ wreck _._ Over and over again that entire day, I kept thinking that - like a fucking loop inside my brain. And then when I was facing down Amora, I couldn’t help but think _Maybe Sam would be happier with Bucky than with me._ ”

“And that was your last thought,” Sam deduces. Jamie nods, heaving a breath.

“Yeah,” He sighs heavily, lowering his eyes. “It was.”

“Okay,” Sam allows, drawing out the word, chews on his lips. “So you could’ve changed yourself back at any point in time?”

“Yeah,” Jamie agrees, licking his lips to wet them. Sam stomps down the frustration that rises up and wants to take over.

“So why didn’t you?” he asks instead of shouts.

“Because being Bucky was so _freeing,”_ Jamie lilts in amazement. The corners of his lips tick upwards, and Sam can only stare. “It felt so _good_ to be _normal_ , and emotionally stable for _once.”_ Sam can’t help the snort that comes out.

“I _mean_ ,” he teases with a small laugh, but Jamie frowns and taps his fingertip twice against Sam’s cheek; their code for _shut up a sec and listen_.

“But it wasn’t the same,” Jamie confides, his voice soft and yearning. “It wasn’t what I wanted it to be. Because,” he huffs in frustration, his fingers gently gripping Sam’s cheeks as he struggles to articulate what he wants to say. “ _Because_ \- ”

“Because I wasn’t in love with Bucky,” Sam finishes for him.

“Yeah,” Jamie whispers, disappointed. He breathes out heavily and lowers his hands from Sam’s face, the warmth lingering like a ghost.

Sam doesn’t know what to say to that or even what to think. But before he even has time to ponder that over, Jamie takes both of Sam’s hands into his. Sam startles and quickly raises his eyes to look into Jamie’s. His blue eyes are so warm and brimming with affection, with _love_ , that Sam can barely _breathe_.

“So I’m gonna quit bein’ selfish,” Jamie vows. Sam raises a questioning eyebrow. “I’m gonna give you what you want the most, Sam.” With his left hand, Jamie lets Sam go, and reaches into his dark pants pocket.

He pulls out the small gray box.

“Oh my _god,”_ Sam releases a breathlessly startled laugh, a giddiness rising in him that borders on hysterics.

“That shithead Bucky bought a ring for you too,” Jamie states with a fond smile, raising the box so it’s nestled between them. “He was so adamant I say yes, that punk.” Sam throws his head back and laughs.

He gives Jamie a broad grin, and lifts his hand to pluck the box out from his boyfriend’s fingers -

 _“Sam!”_ Screams Wanda from the door, scaring the ever-loving _crap_ out of Jamie and Sam, making them jump about twelve feet in the air.

They both whip their heads around to look at the door, and there’s Wanda looking out of breath, along with Steve, Natasha, Bruce and Helen behind her. _Everyone_ in the fucking _compound_ is in their _hallway_ , sticking their noses in the doorway, practically spilling into the room. Then they all start _talking_ at once.

“The serum it’s - ” Helen and Bruce start, their eyes gleaming excitedly because _science_.

“Jamie’s - ” Steve gets out, a smile bright on his face.

“The spell - ” Wanda and Strange state together.

“ - back to _normal_ \- ” Tony crows with delight.

“ _Yeah_ , _thanks, guys we got it!”_ Sam yells over them all, silencing them. The crowd all collectively blink, their faces different degrees of shock, mouths shaped into perfect _O_ ’s.

“I _told_ you guys!” Natasha exclaims, irritated, as she squeezes through all the bodies to get to the door. “ _Stark_ , if you hadn’t had Friday go _quiet_ , we would’ve _known_ we were _interrupting_ \- ”

And that’s all Sam manages to catch before the best woman in the entire world shuts the door behind her, giving them the privacy they damn well _deserve_ as she herds everyone out.

Sam turns back to Jamie. His boyfriend’s eyes are bright with humor, and his lips are a squiggly line that’s trying to fight back a smile.

They spend five straight minutes gasping and clinging onto each other, trying to keep themselves upright as peals of laughter ring off the guest room’s walls like bells - _wedding_ bells, if Sam’s got anything to say about it. As soon as they think they’re done, they only have to _look_ at each other before they’re launched into another hopeless fit of laughter.

But once the giggles subside, Jamie takes Sam into his arms, looks down at him with blue eyes so full of wonder - so full of _love_ \- that Sam feels sure down to his bones that this is only the start of their great life together.

“Go ahead, Birdy,” Jamie acquiesces with a smile so bright, it would put the arc reactor to shame. He passes over the box, metal fingers brushing against Sam’s.

Sam takes it, opens the box with both hands, before immediately taking Jamie’s vibranium hand in his again. Nestled inside the plush creamy pillow is his own familiar ring, but next to it is another one: a gunmetal black ring, that’s a darker, rounder version of the one he had picked out, but the color inside is a gleaming copper instead of black.

“Will you marry me, you fucking idiot?” Sam _finally_ asks, a smile curving his lips. Jamie grins, his face as joyful and bright as his younger self’s.

“ ’Course I fucking will,” he answers, immediate and so fucking _sure_ that Sam has no choice but to kiss him. It’s the best _welcome home_ kiss he’s ever gotten.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://www.etsy.com/listing/267141480/gunmetal-tungsten-ring-rose-gold-black?ref=listing-shop-header-2) is Jamie and Bucky's engagement ring for Sam.
> 
> Well, that's it! That's the end! Now that we've reached the very end of this fic, I can't believe it's finally done. But before I sign off, there's just one last thing to do! 
> 
> This fic _would not have been possible_ without the help of so many amazing people, and I am extremely grateful to each and every one of them!
> 
> First and foremost, I gotta shout my _massive_ thanks to my powerhouse tag-team betas: [shadychild](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shadychild/pseuds/shadychild) and [Calliope_Soars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliope_Soars/pseuds/Calliope_Soars) for being there to read what I had, cry to me about the feels my fic was giving them, sacrifice sleep to read the latest updates, and for helping me make my fic _so much better_ and more coherent than it was before. I'm sorry I wrecked you guys, but my fic appreciates you, and I love you.
> 
> I wanna thank my lovely artist, [Wolviecat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolviecat/pseuds/Wolviecat) who was great at answering emails and delivered on _gorgeous_ artwork for this fic.
> 
> Gotta give my thanks to Anthony Mackie and Sebastian Stan, who make writing Sam and Bucky easy and were there when I needed a laugh and for providing me with loads of inspiration over the last few months.
> 
> Most importantly of all, I wanna thank the mods of the [Sam Wilson Birthday Bang](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sam_Wilson_BB), for getting a great gang of people together to talk about Sam Wilson all day long. I wanna also thank said people who were there to lend an ear and give advice whenever I struggled and just for being incredibly sweet and unbelievably great ~~enablers~~ cheerleaders. Couldn't ask for a more supportive and loving group of people, and it has been a pleasure to work with you all.
> 
> Lastly, I wanna thank _you_ , dear reader, for taking the time to read this fic at all! And if you leave a kudos or a comment behind, double thanks! See you for the next fic!


End file.
